


Andraste's Witch

by Mysdrym



Series: Andraste's Witch [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alistair x Brosca, Angst, Cassandra x Trevelyan, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hawke x Isabela, Humor, Overcoming Prejudices, PTSD, Violence, Withdrawal, a little bit of humor anyway, body horror (think red templars), m!hawke x Isabela, overcoming self hate, slowburn, witch!inquisitor au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:19:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 82
Words: 264,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysdrym/pseuds/Mysdrym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Divine called for the Conclave to settle matters between the mages and templars, no one expected things to fall perfectly into place, but the sky tearing open and spitting demons every which way was a bit much. Add to that that the only survivor is a no-name woodlands apostate who, by all accounts, shouldn’t have even been present. Truly, the odds are against the newly formed Inquisition, and its mission to set the world right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What is a Witch?

**Author's Note:**

> This story is going to follow most of Inquisition, with a few twists and turns, the most obvious being that the human who survives the Conclave is not a Trevelyan. 
> 
> This will (hopefully) be updated every Wednesday.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to read, and I hope you enjoy!

_“Witches?” Cullen Rutherford asked skeptically, one brow quirked as he eyed the boy who had spoken, Alistair something-or-other. He and a few other recruits stood to the side of the training grounds, cooling down after the day’s lessons and sparring. Cullen’s curls stuck to his forehead and poofed up in a wilted, golden halo around his head as he appraised Alistair, wondering just what had gotten into him._

_Alistair wasn’t bad at his sword practice or his lessons, but he was constantly causing trouble and making it clear to most anyone that he had no real interest in joining the Order when he grew up. His fate had been decided for him, and he was horribly bitter._

_Cullen had joined willingly, and threw himself into every task set before him, determined to be the best templar he could be. Because of that, Cullen rarely dealt with Alistair in his leisure. Normally, as soon as practice was over, Alistair was off doing…whatever it was he did, while Cullen went to study and prepare for the next day._

_Occasionally, he’d heard Alistair scream in the Chantry, just to see how fast their teachers and mentors could get to him. When they got there, he always grinned foolishly and told them that he was, ‘Just checking.’_

_Today, though…_

_Today, he’d decided to stick around with the others and talk about legends._

_His eyes sparkled with mischief as he nodded toward Cullen, crossing his arms. “We’ve all heard the stories. Flemeth and her many daughters, prowling the Wilds, ensnaring men and turning the poor fools who stumble across them into toads.”_

_“Flemeth isn’t real,” Cullen objected, without thinking. A trill of terror still clenched in his stomach at the thought of witches and the things they did in the stories, but he did his best to keep his face calm, unconcerned._

_The others abruptly looked from Alistair to Cullen._

_Alistair seemed somewhat flustered to have had his stories challenged so soon and stood his ground, brow dipping as he glared at Cullen. “You sure about that? You wouldn’t be scared if they told you to go find an apostate who’d fled to the protection of the Wilds? I bet you’d believe in her as you trudged through the muck, bogged down in your armor. Only the phylactery’s light to guide you in the dark.”_

_The image painted certainly wasn’t a pleasant one._

_Cullen crossed his arms. “Even if witches are real, they’re_ just _mages. A good templar could take one on.”_

_“You think you’ll be good enough to take on a hundreds-years-old witch?” Alistair scoffed, mirroring Cullen’s stance and crossing his own arms. “They’d turn you into a toad and cook you alive.”_

_“That’s what spell interrupts are for,” Cullen argued. “So long as you don’t panic, and remember your training, mages won’t be able to get a jump on you. And most mages aren’t that bad anyway. They deserve protection just as much as regular people do.”_

_“Unless you walk into their trap,” Alistair shot back, ignoring Cullen’s defense of mages. He took a step forward, puffing his chest out a little. Determination glimmered in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let Cullen ruin this for him. “All the training in the world won’t save you if_ they _see you first. And it’s_ their _Wilds. They know when something’s out of place.”_

_“Flemeth—and her daughters—aren’t real,” Cullen insisted, taking a step forward himself._

_“You already said they could be real.” Smirking, Alistair stood a bit taller. “You can’t go back and say you don’t believe when some little part of you obviously does.”_

_“I didn’t say they_ were _real,” Cullen snapped, his voice raising slightly. “I said_ if _they were, they’d still be easy to deal with.”_

_“Not when they start summoning demons with a snap of their fingers, turning the trees against you, and immobilizing you with a word.”_

_“That’s. What. Spell. Interrupts. Are. For.”_

_The two of them had slowly been stepping closer and closer to one another, one pace at a time, neither willing to back down, and now they were practically toe to toe, nose to nose._

_Even as Alistair started to sneer something, a man’s voice rang out, interrupting the fight before it could begin in earnest. “What’s going on here?”_

_Cullen jumped back a step, standing at attention as he watched one of the full-fledged templars trot over to them. Ser Bryant wasn’t too much older than they were—he was about five years ahead of them, and had taken his vows a year or so ago—but he was still a templar, and thus Cullen reserved the utmost respect for him._

_“Alistair says witches are real.”_

_“They_ are _,” Alistair snapped, stomping a foot at the dismissive way Cullen spoke of him. “Cullen thinks witches aren’t anything worth worrying about.”_

_Ser Bryant looked from one boy to the other and then the other recruits, his brow arching up. “You’re arguing about witches? Witches of the Wilds?”_

_“It’s stupid,” Cullen agreed._

_“It’s not—”_

_Even as Alistair scowled, Ser Bryant reached out and patted his shoulder. The recruit did not seem to take comfort from the action. “Well, not to scare anyone, but you’re_ both _right_ and _wrong.”_

_Alistair took that as a victory and let out a triumphant ‘hmph’ as Cullen’s shoulders slumped. “What?”_

_“We’re really not supposed to encourage this sort of talk,” Ser Bryant began, leaning forward and motioning for the group to huddle in, “but here’s the thing. Flemeth and her daughters? Pure myth.” Even as Cullen let out a bark of a laugh, smirking at Alistair, Ser Bryant held his hands up. “However, they’re myths everyone’s heard, yes? Including….”_

_He motioned for any of them to finish what he was going to say. The recruits glanced at one another a moment before Ser Bryant rolled his eyes. “Including mages.”_

_“So?” Cullen frowned._

_“So, if you had magic, and wanted to live away from the Circles, how better to get people to leave you alone than to assume the mantle of witch? To replicate things from the stories of old? To make people think you are so powerful that they should just leave you be?”_

_That sounded like a plan destined to backfire to Cullen._

_“So…the legends aren’t real,” Alistair said slowly, “but there are mages who are basically witches, because they copy the legends?”_

_“Exactly,” Ser Bryant nodded. He pointed from Alistair to Cullen. “Technically, the Order doesn’t officially recognize them as anything other than apostates, but you try telling a frightened villager that the apostate out in the woods isn’t a witch and see how far you get.”_

_“But then they aren’t anywhere near as powerful as a witch from a legend,” Cullen reasoned._

_“And that’s where you’re right,” Ser Bryant replied. “There are ‘witches’, but they’re little more than glorified mages. So long as you keep a level head, there’s no reason to fear them.” He paused before adding, “Though…there are rumored to be some apostates who_ have _lived in the Wilds for years, so catching them would be incredibly difficult.”_

_“Because they know the territory,” Alistair said, puffing his chest out again._

_“Yes,” Ser Bryant said. Someone called his name, and he paused to glance over his shoulder and wave. Before he left, he let his gaze wander over the small group again, “Most of them just avoid templars, rather than fight them. After all, if a templar goes missing, we’re likely to send reinforcements to find out what happened, yes? They don’t want that.” Someone called his name again. He glanced over his shoulder again and sighed as he nodded back to the recruits. “Does this fix things? You_ both _had good points and errors in your reasoning. Truce?”_

_“Truce,” Cullen mumbled, giving Alistair a sideways glare._

_Alistair merely grunted._

_As Ser Bryant flashed them another smile and headed off, Alistair muttered under his breath, “I was more right than you were.”_

_Cullen set his jaw, turning slowly to glare. “No. You weren’t.”_

_“If you can’t admit it, that’s okay,” Alistair shrugged. “Try as you want, no one’s_ perfect _.”_

_In seconds, Ser Bryant and a few other templars were racing back over to split up the fight as the two recruits tumbled across the training grounds, kicking and throwing punches._

…-…

“Witch!”

Cullen somehow managed to squelch the groan that started in the back of his throat when he heard one of his soliders crying out that damnable accusation. Instead, he focused on cutting down the demon charging him with a swift shield slam and then a jab of his blade into the creature’s chest.

He called out a few orders to the soldiers around him, surveying the field quickly to see where the cry had come from. There were relatively few mages who had dared to assist with the onslaught of demons that had come with the fall of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and he didn’t want any of his people to be accusing what little magical help they had of debauchery.

His gaze met Cassandra’s, where she stood across the field. Bloodied and battered, but still standing, she gave him a short nod before pointing with her sword a little ways ahead, toward a mostly intact wall. Was she suggesting they advance, or had she heard the cry, too?

As he started toward the wall, ordering a few soldiers to come with him, he absently considered that things could always be worse.

At least Alistair wasn’t here. He’d probably have been adamant that a hole in the sky could only be caused by a legendary witch, terrible in power gained from ancient pacts with demons.  He’d probably spend more time terrifying the other soldiers than actually fighting back the monsters.

How that man had managed to deal the finishing blow to an archdemon was still beyond Cullen.

Even as Alistair’s comments about witches summoning demons with a snap of their fingers echoed unbidden through his mind, a bloodied soldier stumbled out from around the wall, eyes wild. She stared around in bewilderment before seeing Cullen and tripping her way over the broken and charred earth to him.

“Commander! There’s a woman!”

He couldn’t help himself as he recognized the voice from earlier. “The witch?”

The soldier didn’t even seem to register the jibe. Instead, she pointed over her shoulder, pale and shaking. “She came out of nowhere! Out of the rift!”

Cullen’s brow pinched together, his weary body finding the strength to straighten up. “A survivor?”

“I thought she was a…” the soldier trailed off and shook her head, “But I was wrong! There was another woman behind her, in the rift. A figure of glowing light. It made sure she was safe and then disappeared.”

“Where is she?” Cassandra barked, making the soldier—and nearly Cullen—jump. When had she made it over to them?

Even as the soldier pointed over her shoulder, a man came around the edge of the wall, an unconscious human woman draped over his shoulder. When he reached the commander, he set her down on the ground and pointed toward her hand. As the Breach overhead crackled with energy, magic erupted from her palm in a green light that mimicked the sky. The stranger let out a shriek, writhing until the magic and Breach quieted down together.

The magic didn’t fully go away, casting an eerie green light around her, wicked shadows twisting away. Aside from her hand, though, she didn’t look like much at all. Her clothes were ridiculously plain and her hair was wild and snarled, hints of bright orange peeking out through a thick layer of dust, debris, and some sort of wet ooze. Blood? Demon ichor? Sweat?

Probably all three.

As another soldier emerged from scouting the temple to announce the woman had been delivered from the Fade by Andraste herself—the story was getting wilder by the minute, and Cullen considered that he’d preferred the simpler, witch accusation.

The Breach crackled overhead, expanding inch by agonizing inch, and the magic on the woman’s hand flared again, the pain enough to draw out a tortured scream as she convulsed. Just as Cullen considered that perhaps he could use his templar abilities to subdue the magic—would they even still work without lyrium in his system?—it quieted down again and the stranger stilled.

Her breathing was still labored, though. It was hard to say if she’d lived.

“Whoever she is, she’s connected to that,” Cullen murmured to Cassandra, pointing up without taking his gaze off of the stranger—a mage? Or was that the magic in her hand? If she was a mage, she wasn’t particularly strong.

With a quiet swear, Cassandra pointed sharply down at the woman. “Take her back to Haven.”


	2. A Talk with the Ambassador

Finley leaned in the doorway to Lady Montilyet’s office watching the ambassador’s quill flash across whatever she was writing, dancing like a blade might through the air. People kept saying her words could be just as sharp. Finley was well acquainted with the sting a word could bring, though she had a hard time seeing the ambassador having such a bite.

Out of everyone in Haven, Lady Montilyet certainly seemed the kindest.

But then, Finley had never been the best judge of character.

She wasn’t exactly familiar with all the politics that went into…well, everything. She’d never had to deal with such things. Or…perhaps she had and had simply ignored it somehow. If a hole could spit demons out of the sky, she supposed anything was possible.

With a soft rap against the doorframe she was leaning against, Finley captured the ambassador’s attention. Lady Montilyet’s dark eyes snapped up from her paper, quill instantly lifting so that the ink wouldn’t blot on the page. She twisted her wrist elegantly, keeping any ink from dripping down as she placed the quill back in its inkwell and rose to her feet, all in one fluid motion.

“Herald.”

Winding a lock of light orange hair around her finger, Finley flinched at the title, crinkling her nose. However, she took the acknowledgement as an invitation inside and pushed away from the door, taking a step or two in. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you not to call me that?”

“You…” Lady Montilyet allowed a fleeting smile before stepping around her desk and up to her guest. She hesitated for just a breath when their gazes met. It wasn’t meant in ill will. Finley’s eyes were…odd. Fade-touched, someone had said, a long time ago. Around the pupils, her eyes were a bright, almost gold yellow. The outer part of the irises were midnight blue rings, with a richer, mid blue in between. The way the yellow tapered off into the blue made them look almost like they were tiny flames dancing in her eyes.

Before, if it hadn’t simply caused terror, it had been a point of unease for those who didn’t know her.

Now, someone had started the rumor that her eyes were some ‘sunburst’, a sign of the Maker’s blessing.

Any half-assed templar would know the truth with a glance, but that hardly seemed to matter to the people who whispered about it, or even to the templars around Haven who gave her suspicious yet curious glances.

“I suppose I can call you Finley, if it pleases you.” The ambassador hesitated before moving to the side and motioning to a seat across from her desk. It was a long, simple couch of sorts. ‘Twas likely nothing either of them were used to using. While Finley didn’t see a point in sitting on pillows and cushions, Lady Montilyet was likely used to something more…what was the word? Refined? “May I help you with something?”

Finley eyed the couch, a frown settling into place. “I was hoping you could, though I’d like to go somewhere…more private.” Lady Montilyet’s brow arched. Finley appraised her expression, trying to figure out what might be causing her trepidation. “I promise not to sacrifice you to anything, dastardly or otherwise.”

The ambassador laughed, attention flitting to her desk and then back to Finley, as though weighing how much work she had against the time for a conversation. “What is this about?”

“Certain matters that will likely interest you.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Once I know no one will be eavesdropping.” Finley crossed her arms, glancing about the room, fully expecting Sister Nightingale to glide out of the shadows at any moment. At least the ceiling was low enough that it was unlikely anyone could hide in the actual eaves.

“Perhaps… Would the war room suffice?”

Ah, the little closet in the back of the Chantry, where they’d shoved all the boxes and other stored trinkets against one wall to make room for their rickety table. Though she doubted he would appreciate the notice, the Inquisition’s commander, Cullen Rutherford, had tried—unsuccessfully—to fix that damned table at least three times. Finley half expected that when he couldn’t be found at the training grounds or with the others, he was in that room, trying in vain to make the table and Inquisition both into something proper that wouldn’t topple at a light bump.

“I do not wish to be…” How to phrase it without sounding too sneaky or devious? Her brow pinched together as she tried to think. Every mage knew that one wrong word could make a world of difference for their fates.

“Finley?”

She blinked out of her thoughts. What had she been saying? “I...I don’t wish to be snuck up on.” For the second time, Lady Montilyet’s eyebrows shot up, and Finley sighed, holding a hand up, the other over her heart. “No horrid blood rituals, remember?”

Lady Montilyet considered things for a moment and then walked over to a small cabinet to the side of her office. She opened it and pulled out a rather lush and unnecessarily voluminous coat. “We could go for a walk just behind the Chantry. Patrols keep the demons at bay.” When she’d bundled herself up, she reached back into the cabinet and pulled out snow boots and gloves.

Finley couldn’t believe how much the woman put into staying warm. When Lady Montilyet finished donning her gear, Finley gave her a critical once over. “Lady Ambassador, I don’t’ know if you’ve bundled up enough. I can still see your eyes.”

“If I’m to call you Finley, you’ll refer to me as Josephine,” she replied, ignoring the jest. The smile she tried to hide reached her eyes, though. It was a welcome sight, especially compared to the critical and suspicious looks half of Haven still gave her, even after Finley had managed to stop the Breach from growing.

Finley made a flourished bow. As she rose, she nodded toward the entrance to the Chantry. “Shall we dare the dire cold?”

“If you’ve nothing better to do than make jokes, I’ve a great many things to do,” Josephine retorted, beginning to remove one of her gloves.

Finley held her hands up. “Wait, wait. I really do need to talk to someone.” She stepped back to the door and glanced around the Chantry before leaning toward Josephine and whispering conspiratorially, “And to be honest, everyone else here terrifies me, so I’d much prefer you be the one I talk to.”

Josephine blinked, stepping out into the main part of the Chantry and closing her door behind her. Finley had shuffled out backwards ahead of her and couldn’t stop herself from constantly searching their surroundings for any of the familiar faces which terrified her so, one in particular. While she hadn’t known any of them very long, she had noticed the way Sister Nightingale seemed protective of their dear ambassador. It wouldn’t do to be on a spymaster’s bad side, and she didn’t want the woman to assume the worst if she saw them together.

After all, everyone _always_ assumed the worst of mages.

All of the windows in the Chantry were so high up, too. If anyone came after her, she’d have a terrible time getting out of their reach. Not that it’d be impossible, but she probably _would_ be escaping with a broken _some_ thing or a stab wound _some_ where.

The two of them wandered down the hall and out into the open, through large wooden doors that creaked miserably at the fact that, even after all these years, they were still expected to move. The wind greeted them as soon as they were out, snapping the door shut behind them with a powerful gust that battered them with loose snow.

At least it wasn’t falling anymore.

Sister Nightingale wasn’t in her operations tent, and Finley considered for a split second that perhaps there was a Maker after all. Things were certainly going…not terrible this morning. That was better than they’d been for a while now.

Days…

Had it only been days since the Conclave? Everything seemed to stretch out so…long.

Josephine led the way, down a winding, well buried path that had clearly seen better days, and Finley had to hurry to catch up. Fortunately, the snow was still fluffy enough that their boots didn’t send them skating dangerously toward the frozen underbrush which poked up around the path rather mercilessly, like twisted, broken fingers.

When they’d reached the back of the Chantry, they wandered a little further into the woods, stopping when they found a decently sized rock to serve as a bench. Finley hopped up the same time that Josephine carefully nestled herself into place. Her coat made a quiet sigh when she sat upon it. Finley’s legs were crossed in a breath, her bare hands clasped around her ankles.

Josephine frowned. “Heral—Finley. Should we have waited for you to get your things, as well?”

“What?” She looked at the ambassador, terror briefly seizing her before she realized Josephine had meant a better coat and gloves. The blacksmith, Herritt, had said he would make something more comfortable for her, though she was highly skeptical of any ‘gifts’ she might receive from anyone here.

Gifts always had strings attached.

She waved off Josephine’s concern quickly. Of course the ambassador didn’t know about her _things_ …

No one did.

Though…she actually _did_ need to get them.

Were they still where she’d hidden them?

They’d better be.

“Ah, no,” Finley said, realizing that Josephine was watching her, her earlier good humor expended. Whether it was for what the cold might do to Finley or what Finley might do to her, she couldn’t say. “I am used to much colder winters, actually, so this is fine.”

“That is good,” Josephine murmured, smile in place. It wasn’t as genuine as earlier, and her gaze wandered back toward the path they’d come from.

“I suppose I should get right down to things, shouldn’t I?” If Finley gave the ambassador too much time to think things over, she might decide she didn’t want to have so quiet a conversation, when no one knew where they were.

Because _everyone_ knew that mages were terribly frightening creatures to be alone with.

Finley ran her hands down her face, tugging on the skin on her cheeks before letting her hands rest on her knees. The cold was a welcome prickling across her knuckles. “I think it has become rather apparent that I have not been completely forthright with the lot of you, and I wish to say that I can see how that might appear…incriminating, to say the least.”

“Oh, Herald, we believe you when you say you didn’t cause the hole in the sky—”

“Yes, yes,” Finley waved one of her hands again, fingers curling toward her palm when she lowered it back to her knee. “But I have withheld information which, in the very least, makes it harder to sell the truth to others, yes?” She paused but then started speaking again before Josephine could reply. “You see, when it comes to templars and devoted Chantry folk, I have developed a tendency to either blatantly lie or just…” Upon drawing a blank, she simply shrugged. “I’m very used to lying, but I would like to try _not_ to here, since it seems like for once it actually won’t help me.”

The way Josephine was staring at her, she wasn’t sure the truth was helping either.

Letting her hands slide down to her ankles, she drummed her nails against the leather of her boots slowly. “I…you recall when Commander Rutherford asked me which Circle I was from?”

“My lady, you spent the next ten minutes expressing how, since all the Circles had fallen, you could hardly be considered to be from any of them and went on to insist that referring to the Circles at all was detrimental to the growth and recovery of Thedas as a whole.” Josephine’s smile was back, crinkling the skin around her eyes. “I doubt any of us will be forgetting that speech any time soon.”

“Yes, well, there was a point to be made and I…dammit, no. There was no point. I was just misdirecting,” Finley slouched her shoulders. Being honest was harder than she’d expected it would be. “I’m an apostate.”

“We know.”

“A was-never-in-a-Circle-ever one,” Finley clarified. Josephine seemed amused by Finley’s specification. Reaching up to scratch her neck, Finley avoided looking at Josephine. Maybe if she didn’t look at her, she’d be able to just get this all out. “If you think of the southernmost village in Fereldan, I am from a bit further south. I have always existed within the fringes of the whole templar-mage…dichotomy or whatever it is. I didn’t even know there was a war until maybe a year after it had started. And the only reason I found out about it then and am not still blissfully unaware of this whole mess is because I had been trying to find a way to contact a certain Circle mage.”

“Who?”

“Her name is…was, possibly, if she actually made it to the Conclave,” that was a depressing thought, “Enchanter Pernice, from Cumberland’s Circle. She was a healer, like myself, and I’d wanted to study with her.” Finley sat up a little straighter, and her long, messy braid swung slightly against her back. She’d no doubt have to brush snow out of the tips of her hair later, where it had curled on the rock behind her. “That’s why I was at the Conclave.”

“Did you know this Enchanter Pernice well?”

“I never met her,” Finley shook her head. “I simply heard of her work and thought that she might be able to help me with a project I was working on…involving the curing of long term diseases.” She laced her fingers together and let them rest above her lap, her elbows leaning on her legs. “I don’t know if you are aware or not, but there are still a great many shortcomings in the fields of magical healing, and, as a healer, I have been pushing myself to fix this.”

Josephine let out a quiet sniffle and rubbed her slowly reddening nose. The cold was getting to her. However, she seemed oblivious. Instead, her eyes were ever so slightly narrowed, and a half smile played on her lips as she leaned toward Finley. “You are trying to tell me that you, an apostate, dared an event crawling with ‘templars and devout Chantry folk’, to try to meet another mage you’d never even seen before simply because you were a fan of her work?”

“I am a fan of progress, ambassador,” Finley corrected, stern look in place. Josephine didn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest, so she gave up the attempt to salvage her pride. “Though I suppose one could word it that way.”

“Why would you not simply come forward with this when we asked before?” Josephine shook her head, a few of her dark locks falling loose from beneath her hood. “It is hardly damning.”

The Chantry and the trees had been doing a marvelous job of blocking the continuous wind, though a whisper of it slipped past the obstacles and tugged on both of the ladies’ hair and clothes. Finley shivered.

“It has been my experience that admitting oneself to be an apostate to anyone in shiny armor tends to go over poorly and lead to a great deal of running and dodging sharp objects.” She leaned slightly toward Josephine, brow arching a little. “While I could outrun both Commander Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Nightingale worries me. I get the feeling that if she took up the chase as well, she’d be able to keep up and, well…I would be poorly equipped to defend myself in that situation.” She shifted around so that she could face Josephine, holding up both of her hands, index fingers pointed heavenward. “This is where you come in.” Her fingers came down to point at the ambassador. “I tell you the truth, and you tell the scary ones. They like you. In the meantime, I wait a safe distance from the Chantry and, when they come out, if they look scarier than usual, I run away.”

“You, a self-professed healer, would really leave the hole in the sky?” Josephine cocked her head, that half smile still in place.

“I…”

Truth be told, healer was… not quite accurate. It was not _in_ accurate by any means, either, but…

Finley’s healing was mostly reserved for animals and plants. She could heal herself fairly well, as well, but that was because she knew when something was amiss in her own skin. When it came to healing other people, though, her experience was actually quite wanting.

Not that anyone here needed to know that.

After all, she’d figured that this Inquisition lot would be more accepting of a healer, and healing someone else wasn’t _that_ different from healing herself. Well, it was considerably more taxing, but aside from that…

“If they continue with their glowering, I think I shall recruit my own following to close the Breach,” Finley retorted finally, shrugging. “No one says I _have_ to stay with the Inquisition, after all. It could be a race to see who saves the world first.”

Even as Josephine laughed at that, recognizing her comments as the tomfoolery they were, Finley gave her a sideways glance.

Of everyone here, Josephine seemed the least afraid in general. Either she was brave to the point of foolishness, or she was damned good at controlling which emotions she showed. Perhaps that was partially why she was so approachable. She wasn’t intimidating, and she wasn’t afraid.

Finley had seen the fear in the others’ eyes, fleeting moments where their faces twisted with fright, only to be smoothed out with concentration and control seconds later. They might not have been afraid of Finley herself, but fear afflicted people in strange ways, and it left her lungs empty and strained to think what might happen if any of that fear were misdirected at her…

After all, that hole in the sky had to have been caused by magic. What if they decided she was capable of the same sort of debauchery?

Josephine was saying something, but the words died off behind the sound of charred everything crunching beneath boots and the strange crackles that the rifts made echoing through the broken halls. The smell of ash and roasted flesh flourished in Finley’s nostrils, and she felt smoke stinging her eyes as she stared at the contorted figures littering the area around the temple. Her throat constricted. She couldn’t breathe.

She shouldn’t have been there. She should have been home, in the Kocari Wilds, researching spells and curled up in her ‘lair’, safe.

The demons were screeching in the distance. Pride’s laugh rumbled in her ears.

“Herald?”

Finley blinked, the white of the snow flooding her vision and making her cringe. She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes, though that only made the visions of bodies lurch up to the front of her memory again. She jerked her hands down, blinking several times. She could deal with splotchy vision, but not those tortured faces.

Had one of them been Enchanter Pernice?

“Finley?”

A pair of boots rested in the snow, toes pointed toward her. Even as she looked up, she had to fight back another cringe. Sister Nightingale stood before them, one hand on her hip as she watched Finley, looking for…she didn’t know what. A sign of weakness?

A sign of strength?

It was hard to say which was more lacking. Or damning, at the moment.

“Finley,” Josephine whispered again, placing her hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She glanced at Josephine’s hand. Before she could pat it or…whatever she was supposed to do when people touched her, the ambassador pulled away, her smile empty, but in place.

“You really should wear a warmer coat,” Josephine offered as she slid to her feet, her own coat poofing out around her as she stood. “You’re shaking.”

Finley stared at her feet for a second before taking in a deep breath of cold air, welcoming the way it sent pinpricks down her windpipe and into her lungs. “Oh, a bit of cold is good for the soul. Keeps you sharp. Reminds you that you’re alive.”

Drawing her knees to her chest abruptly, Finley launched herself past Sister Nightingale, her boots crunching an inch or so down into the snow as she landed. She shook her arms out a bit. She _had_ let the cold sit in too much. A bit of a stroll would fix that. She spun around and began walking down the trail, backwards, pointing at Josephine, who was standing beside Sister Nightingale, concern pinching her brow together. “So. You talk to them, and I will…wait.”

She didn’t turn around until she was a good few steps away from them. As she did, she heard Sister Nightingale ask what was going on and Josephine sigh. She didn’t hear what the ambassador told her, however, as she’d already picked up her pace, determined to be near the lake by the time Commander Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast were told of her Wilds origins.

She had made it clear that that was where she was from, hadn’t she?


	3. Into the Woods

“Herald?”

The voice was faint, and Finley pretended she hadn’t heard as she continued walking toward Haven’s western gate. Ever since her talk with Josephine a week ago, she’d been trying to find a nice, quiet time to go get her belongings. It had taken her almost a month to travel to the Conclave, and she’d brought plenty of supplies and a few changes of clothes with her, along with one or two simple comforts that reminded her of home.

When she’d gotten close to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, though, she’d decided to leave her things somewhere inconspicuous. She hadn’t wanted to walk into a peaceful gathering with weapons—though the rest of the bastards had had their staves and swords, so she damned well could have—and she hadn’t wanted them to get a proper glimpse of any item that might mark her a wilder. She’d donned some pretty, ‘proper’ clothes—a simple shirt, a light leather vest, light leather pants, knee-high lace up boots, and a plain, pitiful cloak that most closely resembled the sort of thing she’d seen villagers near the edge of the woods wearing—to make herself appear like she blended in.

Not that she had. All the mages had been wearing robes that would have made running completely impractical. Further, the fact that she _hadn’t_ any type of weapon had turned a few heads.

She felt like someone had stopped her to ask her something—perhaps about her lack of a weapon—but she couldn’t remember. Her memories grew horribly fuzzy around the point where she’d been scanning the main room for Enchanter Pernice, and then…they just disappeared.

She could remember thinking to send a message via a spell to someone who might be able to help her find the Circle mage, but if she’d actually attempted the spell, that too was gone from her memory.

The new clothes Seeker Pentaghast and the others had given her—her ‘proper’ outfit had weathered too many holes to be wearable in this cold—were simple, thankfully, but they were itchy and so… _wrong_. She didn’t know a better word to describe the problem. The boots barely came up a few inches above her ankles and thudded awkwardly against the front and back of her legs when she walked. It wasn’t anything that would cause blisters, but it wasn’t what she liked. She didn’t need to be reminded that she was wearing clothes, as she was quite confident in her ability to dress herself.

She hadn’t bothered to complain, though. People weren’t exactly thrilled with her.

After what she’d assumed to be a rather clear-cut conversation with Josephine, Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Rutherford had come looking for her. Apparently she’d been too vague about a few details, and they’d wanted clarification.

Where was she from? _South._

How far south? _Very far._

South of what? _Ferelden._

The mountains, the swamps, the Wilds?

She hadn’t intended to answer that one, until they’d pried. Then she’d merely pointing out that where she was from was hardly that important, seeing as she wasn’t there at present, was she? Commander Rutherford looking like he was getting a headache, and Seeker Pentaghast had finally moved on.

How had she known about Enchanter Pernice’s studies? _A spirit mentioned it in the Fade_.

Oh, they hadn’t liked that. Talking to spirits? Did that mean she thought demons were fun, little play things, too?

Spirits and demons were different. Solas understood that much, at least. And he’d been conveniently nearby when the conversation had begun to deteriorate.

Alright, not conveniently, intentionally. Josephine and the others had finished discussing Finley faster than she had anticipated they would—she’d thought she would have a little time to help Adan with his potions—and when she’d seen those two coming her way, she decided to bank on the one person who hadn’t side-eyed her yet.

Granted, he was another apostate, so that could have been a horribly ill-conceived tactic, but it had worked.

The next answer had brought deeper frowns. How had she known Enchanter Pernice would be at the Conclave? _Why, spirits of course_.

Now Solas had started asking her questions about her interactions with spirits, and she was fairly certain that he knew she was lying about her information.

Except that she wasn’t. A spirit had said those things. Just not to _her_.

Thinking of the others—the ones who had talked to the spirit—made her wonder if they were alright. She needed to find a way to send word to them—her communication spell had either been severed when she went into the Fade or they’d severed it after hearing word of the Conclave and assuming she was either dead or in templar hands—but that was proving most difficult with all the templars around. They picked up on magic being used so quickly, and appeared almost as soon as she _thought_ of a spell, like flies to a corpse.

It hardly mattered anyway; she was the one who was there. And she did deal with a spirit or two from time to time, so she just fell back on those interactions when Solas pestered her, and he seemed at least semi-placated with those stories.

The last question in the seeker’s interview had left both her _and_ Solas ready to bolt with the way the seeker’s rage had boiled just beneath the surface.

How did she sneak in unnoticed? _Just walked in. It wasn’t hard. Shoulders square, a disapproving scowl on my face like every other mage, and I was in. There wasn’t exactly someone with a list of names and portraits making sure only the ones invited had shown up_.

There was also the tiny detail that she’d made a point of pretending to wave to someone and then told the revered mother at the entrance that the only reason they hadn’t waved back was because they hadn’t seen her. The woman had clearly been dealing with a great many agitating people for a while. Taking that into consideration, all Finley had needed to do was offer to tell a story of how she’d met her imaginary mage contact during their early years in the Circle that sounded like it would take a good long, winding while to tell, and the woman had all but begged her to just walk in.

She’d left that part out.

That woman was dead. She felt a twinge of guilt for having pestered her so, just before her death. If she’d known…

If she’d known, she’d have told the woman to run. She’d have told them all to run.

Finley had also enchanted her eyes to look plain before she’d gone in, and with her cloak, no one had had any reason to give her much pause…except for her pesky lack of a staff. Was that why she’d been stopped? That had to have been why…

If only she could remember.

As she pushed against the blankness of her memory, a strange terror roiled in her stomach, darkening the edges of her mind and threatening to swallow the rest of her memories. She felt like a face was staring at her, just behind the veil of darkness, a grinning, twisted, horrible—

“Herald!”

She blinked and found the snow brilliant around her, the darkness and face gone. A different fear settled into her stomach as she recognized the voice.

Commander Cullen Rutherford.

Since her immensely pleasant conversation with him and Seeker Pentaghast, she had done her damnedest to avoid the scary trio, which had, regrettably, also meant limiting her conversations with Josephine. It was a pity; she seemed like a nice woman.

As it was, Finley could hardly say hello to Josephine before Sister Nightingale was there, casually asking her the oddest of questions. What were her thoughts on shape shifting? Had she ever done so? What was her mother like? What fell into her arsenal of spells?

She’d told the sister she didn’t like her spells being referred to as an arsenal. There were a great many ways to kill a man, and she’d never seen a point to add magic to the list.

The sister had then asked her how she _defended_ herself. Apparently simply asking her what she used to kill people with would be too forward.

Finley wasn’t sure how, but she’d managed to keep her breathing even as she felt like her lungs were collapsing on themselves and explain that she preferred out running her enemies to fighting them.

Sister Nightingale had wanted to know what sort of spells she used? Did she have a haste buff? What was the extent of her healing abilities?

Finley had asked just why she wanted to know about her spells. The sister wasn’t a mage, so it wasn’t like they could trade secrets. Even as Sister Nightingale—she’d said Finley could call her Leliana, but Finley was still a bit skeptical on being so friendly with her—had tried to say something about curiosity, Finley had found a reason to be elsewhere.

She was quite good at that.

It truly seemed a novel concept to the leaders here in Haven that a mage could use magic strictly to help, too. That she could have made it through life without conjuring fire or ice or lightning or resorting to dastardly blood rituals seemed to be as much of a miracle as her stepping out of the Fade.

She’d been very careful to imply she couldn’t use any types of offensive spells, hoping they wouldn’t think to ask her about nature magic and then catch her in a lie.

After all, it would be better if they all assumed she was simply a healer, nothing more. Let them wonder about her survival skills, if they must, though surely there were more important things in the world to concern themselves over.

Like the hole in the sky.

That was part of why she avoided Commander Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast. She didn’t want to have the same conversations, over and over. She didn’t want them comparing notes, looking for variations in her answers.

Well, that and she didn’t trust templars as far as she could throw them. Which was not at all because she refused to get close enough to them to try to pick them up to begin with, though she doubted that would go over well if she did. All that armor was bound to be heavy.

She actually had an odd respect for the templars—and seekers, as they seemed somewhat akin to one another—who chased down malificarum and the like. It was a hard job, and she was glad that there were those willing to be meat shields to keep the world safe from monsters.

However… there were also a great many templars who saw monsters in their own noontime shadows. They allowed their fears to influence their choices. Even the best of men could make a poor decision in a moment of panic, could accuse an innocent mage of conjuring imaginary demons.

And so Finley stayed vigilant and cautious. She kept her distance.

But Haven was small. During the day, she stayed out of sight by assisting Adan with his alchemy. She had a gift for such things, and it was always good to have mundane healing supplies on hand in case one’s magic was bound or expended.

At night, she tended to the wounded, practicing her craft and proving to the skeptical that she was exactly what she claimed to be. As she would wander toward the infirmary to heal those who didn’t mind magic—and help apply tonics and the like for those who did, which was, fortunately, almost all of them—she would see the commander walking back to the chantry from the training grounds. He always had someone with him, either the seeker or sister, or some scout handing him a report and then awaiting orders. The man truly never seemed to have a moment to himself.

So much for fixing that war table.

At least he was too busy to notice her, most of the time.

Even so, sometimes she could feel him watching her. Another of her spells. There was something in templars that made them easy for magic to spot, and her spell had served her well in the wilderness, where templars were a rarity. There, she could be resting in a tree, enjoying her day, when that spell would kick in, and she’d be alert and ready for them, already slipping out of reach before they were close enough to even try to attack her. Here, though, there were dozens and dozens, and her heart skipped a beat every time one of them glanced her way and triggered that quiet chime in her head that let her know she was being hunted.

Someone was always watching her, it seemed, which meant her heart’s rhythm was quite erratic these days.

Somehow, though, she always knew when it was Commander Rutherford. She’d angle herself just enough that she could glance across the way from the corner of her eye, without making it obvious that she was looking for him, and there he’d be, gaze narrowed in her direction until some blessed scout approached him with a report. The second his gaze was off her, she always made certain to get out of view before it could return.

Today had been different, though. She was on a mission, and she couldn’t just duck out of view. She had to get out of Haven.

A few guards seemed to permanently mull around both Adan’s hut and the hovel she’d been given to rest in, making it impossible for her sneak out most of the time—even at night. The only way she’d been able to ditch them today was by slipping out the window of Adan’s hut while he was away delivering some of their products to people around the village. She’d chosen now because the gates would be open for a while yet, and perhaps she’d be able to slip out unnoticed through a throng of people.

Commander Rutherford had all but dashed her hopes, as soon as she was near the gate.

She’d felt his eyes on her as she’d approached the gate, but she’d hoped that he would be too entrenched in getting his recruits to act like soldiers to watch her long enough to realize that it was her beneath Adan’s stolen spare cloak.

If she could just get out… She would come back. It was just that the longer she left her things out in the woods, the more likely that something would get into them and steal or destroy the only comforts she could think of for miles and miles.

She should have just scaled the wall at a less traveled point, but in these shoes, it would have been a nightmare, and someone likely would have stumbled across her before she made it over. That would have made for a great story…. The Herald trying to escape the Inquisition….

His gaze had left her, several times, and each time she’d hoped that he would assume the gate guards would simply stop her if she was indeed the Herald. She had plans for them if they tried to. Mostly, it involved an unnecessary amount of words thrown their way, but she had managed to scrape together enough left over reagents in Adan’s hut to make enough sleeping powder for one or two…obstacles.

But now…

If she could get another few yards before he caught up—his voice had been closer that second time, hadn’t it?—then she could get to the trees before he could get to her…if need be. There was always a chance that he’d remember she had the mark on her hand and keep himself from skewering her for no apparent reason.

Well, if he did skewer her, she was sure he’d come up with a reason first.

Like now, ‘fleeing apostate’ seemed like a pretty standard fall back.

“Herald Finley.”

Dammit. He was too close to pretend she couldn’t hear him now. Resigning herself, she turned slowly, stopping a few paces beyond the gate, ignoring the few glances some of the passersby cast her way.

How had she only gotten this far? The guards had each taken a few steps toward her, though as the commander caught up, they retreated to their posts. She clasped her hands in front of her, allowing a simple, innocent blankness on her face that she hoped would hide the innate terror that he’d gotten far closer than she’d realized.

There was a reason that she never looked back when she ran from templars. It was generally too jarring to see just how well they kept up.

Commander Rutherford did not have the look of a man on the hunt, at least. Instead, he simply seemed agitated that he’d had to call her thrice to get her attention. She would blame the wind, if he asked.

He did not.

“You’re leaving, unarmed?” The last word seemed to have been added as an afterthought, an attempt to make the statement less accusing. His hands rested on the pommel of his blade, though she reminded herself that at least one of his hands was always there, likely white-knuckled half the time beneath his glove, as that sword seemed his only tether to reality.

She wondered what he’d do if he woke up without it one day.

It was tempting to find out, though with her current standing, things would not end well if she took to playing tricks. Especially on templars.

As he closed the distance between them, she took a few long steps backwards, keeping an even ten paces betwixt them. When he realized what she was doing, he stopped, vexed.

Finley kept her hands clasped, sure not to make any sudden movements. Templars were such skittish creatures, after all.

And mages were _so_ very frightening.

As for the unarmed part, he must have been referring to that worthless staff they’d given her when Seeker Pentaghast had first led her to the Breach. It had been little more than a burden to her.

Even so, she oughtn’t to call it worthless. It had belonged to someone.

One of the corpses…

“I’ve magic,” Finley replied curtly. No need to mention she hated staves in general. Nothing screamed, ‘I’m a mage, come get me!’ like a giant stick with a glowy rock on one’s back. Besides, so long as she could get out of reach, she could take a second to heal herself and keep going. No staff needed. Though…perhaps that would help with channeling her spells toward others while she was here… “And I’m not going far. Just a walk, really.” She glanced up at the sky. “I’ll likely be back about when the stars start making their appearances.”

Commander Rutherford motioned toward the frozen lake that bordered their little base. New tents had popped up just outside of town, obscuring part of the view. “If you need to stretch your legs, you could walk around the edge of the lake.”

 _Where we can see you_ was the implied sentiment.

He took a step forward, and she took one back. This time, one of his feet angled ever so slightly, the snow muting any sound it might have made. He was ready for her to run. How exactly would that play out? ‘I’m sorry I killed our dear Herald, but she was fleeing?’ Or perhaps he intended to simply subdue her and drag her back into Haven, tossed over his shoulder like an Avvar returning home with a stolen bride.

He would be horribly disappointed if he actually tried that.

Finley tried not to frown. There didn’t seem to be a tale she could spin to get him to leave her be. She fought back a grimace as it occurred to her she was going to have to be honest. It was one thing to be truthful with Josephine, another to be so with a templar. The words did not want to come to her, but she took a deep breath and spoke in a slow exhale. “I’ve a small cache of supplies in the woods, not terribly far from here. I should like to retrieve it before some scavenger finds it.”

“I see,” was his only response.

The two of them stood there, each inspecting the other, for a few agonizingly quiet moments. There was tension in his shoulders, though it was masked mostly by that mane of fur around the neck of his surcoat.

Striving for a distraction, she pointed toward what was either clouds on the horizon or smoke from some new demon attack. It was hard to tell through the trees. “If I don’t go now, I’ll be caught in the snow on my way back. I’d rather avoid that…” She took a few steps backwards, keeping her eyes on him as he glanced over his shoulder, never turning quite far enough for her to be completely out of his sight, to see that there was indeed something in the distance.

It was so tempting to just run.

Without warning, he strode toward her, his steps closing the gap between them too quickly. She stumbled as she tried to match his pace, still backing up.

“I’ll go with you.”

“’Twould be in poor taste, were I to ask you to shirk your duties, Commander,” Finley said, finally side stepping to keep the space between them. With his pace, he’d be able to circle around and have her backing toward Haven. He seemed to consider that as well, though he simply stopped, watching her with that unnerving stare that said he knew exactly what she was capable of and that he could stop her before the spell even hit her lips.

She tried to smile, but her lips merely quivered a moment before giving up.

“From what you said, we’ll be gone less than two hours. My people can manage themselves for that long.”

“You hope.”

“I have faith in them,” Commander Rutherford said, his usual irritation punctuating his voice. “And Leliana and Cassandra can deal with any minor issues in so little an amount of time.”

She took a few slow steps towards the woods, angled to keep space between them. “You assume they won’t spend the whole time looking for you.”

“Weren’t you worried about getting caught in the snow?” As she reluctantly dragged herself forward, realizing that she wasn’t going to shake him, he matched her pace. His steps were quiet, measured. “Besides, there are still demons about, and it wouldn’t do to have our Herald struck down by one.”

“So you’re offering to be my shield,” Finley whispered, allowing herself a small measure of curiosity. She made sure to keep her distance, as she picked up her stride ever so slightly.

“I am. Unless you would rather we go back to Haven, and I assemble a proper guard for you?”

Once they hit the trees, she’d be able to lose him, if she needed to. It would be harder with more people following her. Not that she _would_ run…would she?

No. She just…the option was a comfort. Possibly the only one she’d have, if they failed to retrieve her things.

To be _able_ to get away from this place. To have a choice. To go home, to where she could be the only person for miles and miles, where she didn’t have to worry about templars’ glares or demons rampaging through everything….

She felt his gaze on her. The wind gusted around them, and she shivered. “Fine.”

She caught the frown that anchored the corners of his lips down as he drew even with her. He paused, looking toward her, and motioned forward. “Lead the way, Lady Herald.”


	4. Trust

She was lost. Cullen could see it in the way the Herald moved. Her earlier confidence—or false bravado, he couldn’t say—had disappeared. Instead, each step felt like she was about to break out into a sprint, and the tension in her was getting worse with every breath, like she might succumb to a panic attack. Her footfalls barely left an imprint in the snow, and if she did run, he’d be hard pressed to keep up or keep track. Was that why she’d let him come with her? Easier to lose a single pursuer than a host?

He should have realized that sooner.

It had been some time since he’d had to chase down an apostate—and even back when he was in the Order, he’d mostly served in the towers, rather than out in the field—but he shouldn’t have allowed himself to forget that mentality of ‘whatever it takes to be free’ that so many of them had. How many times had he heard stories from his brothers and sisters of the Order, talking of mages who acted friendly, submissive, or just barely cooperative because they were trying to lull the templars around them into a sense of calm carelessness?

There’d been one instant, where a friend had nearly been kicked out of the Order because he’d been stupid enough to let a rather lovely mage make him some tea. It had been drugged, of course. If they hadn’t found her a week later, he would have been begging for lyrium on the streets. Another time, two templars had been hunting an apostate who fled _to_ them, thanking the Maker for their presence and getting their assistance in fending off a bear that had attacked him. By the time they’d killed the bear, he’d fled the field. He’d eluded them for almost a month before they finally caught him and brought him in.

He’d been one of the bastards to turn to blood magic in Kinloch Hold.

Cullen focused on the Herald, eyes narrowed. She couldn’t really be planning on running, could she?

Maker, demons were pouring from the sky, and he had to worry over someone who was _supposed_ to be invested in saving the world. How could she not be? Surely she understood that whatever that mark was, it was the only true weapon they had against the rifts.

Perhaps it was too much for her. A simple mage like her had likely never planned for greatness. To be swept up in such a whirlwind, involuntarily…there were times he could barely breathe, and he was a _willing_ participant.

Still, with things as they were, the Inquisition could hardly afford to ease her into this chaos. She would have to toughen up or…there was no acceptable or. She would _have_ to toughen up.

Too much depended on that mark.

It was hard to see the sky through the trees, but he was fairly certain that they’d been wandering for an hour, at least. One long, unbearable hour of utter silence. Demons would have almost been preferable to the tension between the two of them. Almost. He stayed alert, listening for any sounds of fighting, noting any broken branches or signs of rampant magic.

It had been months since he’d taken lyrium, and now he was wondering if his templar abilities still worked. They would likely come in handy out here, should demons attack. Aside from a keen sense of magic developed through years of training, he hadn’t really tried to use any of those skills since his departure from the Order. He’d considered it once, when a despair demon had begun casting some horrendous spell. However, even as he’d focused, the pain that was ever present in the back of his mind had flared to life, and he’d lost his concentration.

Luckily, he’d managed to gather himself fast enough to just shield bash the monster. One interrupt was as good as another, he supposed.

He kept waiting for the pain to subside. If he went long enough without lyrium, surely it would get better; he would grow accustomed to it. It was just these first few months that would be miserable…if he could just get through them…

He would have thought he’d enjoy the silence over the Herald’s ramblings—dear Maker, she could ramble—but the silence just gave him time to think, time for memories to whisper to him all his past mistakes, all his wrongs.

All the times that mages had used their cunning to try to outwit templars.

He should not have come out alone with her.

Drawing himself from his thoughts before images could flicker to life just behind his eyelids, he looked around to see where his self-assigned charge had gotten to. 

She was easy to find in the snow, what with that bright orange hair trailing down her back in such a messy braid that he really didn’t see the point in even putting in up. She was eyeing a fallen tree, fingers running over the bark, as though trying to conjure a memory of her own. She liked to touch things, he’d noticed. Trinkets, trees, plants, anything inanimate. Her hands were always busy.

During their time in the war room together—during introductions, really—she’d played with place markers and her hair and tapped her fingers against the edge of the table in odd rhythms. However, whenever she felt him watching her, she would miss a beat, still for a moment, and then keep on, as though she hadn’t noticed. Somehow, if he or another templar were present, she managed to remain eerily alert. It seemed like she always knew exactly where they were, and it was incredibly disconcerting. He sometimes wondered if she could sense templars the way they could sense magic.

She made more blunders under Leliana’s gaze than his. A careless use of the word ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ when mentioning a healing spell, a dismissive cluck of her tongue when someone offered that a templar could assist her with carrying reagents, little things.  Curious to see if she slipped up even more around people she wasn’t completely terrified of—Josephine had explained to them how they frightened their dear Herald—he’d had several regular soldiers dress down in casual clothes and follow her throughout the week since the Breach’s growth had been stopped.

Mostly, there were no blunders to be caught. She didn’t talk much, instead either mending the injured, or making things to mend them with. And avoiding anyone of importance. She spoke very little to anyone, with precious few exceptions.

She sat with Solas from time to time, though she always found somewhere else to be whenever the conversation turned toward her. Solas seemed to understand her wary nature and never showed if it offended him how she dodged his questions as though he were seeking a way to trap her in some mind game.

All things considered, Cullen was surprised that Solas was still willing to talk to her at all. Their conversations had to be rather one-sided. Granted, one soldier had claimed they had been talking about spirits and the Fade, and that the elf did seem to enjoy telling his stories. Perhaps Solas simply enjoyed a willing audience.

Aside from Solas and Adan—who she only spoke with in regards to alchemical topics—the only person she seemed willing to really talk to for any length was Varric. The Herald and dwarf had an odd sort of understanding. They took some of their meals together and traded stories, none of which were even remotely true. There were talks of gang wars in Kirkwall and kelpies in the Wilds. He wasn’t sure he remembered what a kelpie was, beyond it being some sort of wild animal. Mystical, too, apparently. His soldiers certainly enjoyed the stories, though they tried to keep stern faces when they reported to him.

Cullen doubted the duo had said a single honest sentence to one another yet, and they loved each other for it. Even Varric had admitted, however, that they needed to keep an eye on her.

She was too… withdrawn. She didn’t trust anyone in Haven, and everyone could feel it. They could feel the way she kept herself separate from them.

 _Why would the Herald of Andraste act thus?_ was the question on everyone’s mind. While most of them agreed she couldn’t have caused the destruction, her actions did make her seem rather guilty of _something_.

If Leliana and Josephine would work to stem the rumors of the Herald of Andraste with the sunburst eyes, then it wouldn’t matter as much if she ran off into the woods—not that he’d let her. But his point stood, if they would squelch the rumors, it wouldn’t matter. They could figure out another way to close the rifts, given time. It would be a painful process, but it could be done, surely.

Solas seemed to know a great deal about them, so perhaps he and a few other mages could think something up.

However, to have a key figure just abandon their cause…that would kill them. Already, both Ferelden and Orlais looked upon them as an unwelcome thorn.

The Herald had backed away from the tree, peering around at a few others, rubbing her hands together slowly. Her fingers were getting red, and he could see that they were stiff from the slow way she paused to flex them, keeping the blood flow going.

Whatever she’d hoped to find, it was lost to her.

He glanced down at his gloves and started to pull on the fingers of one. It wouldn’t hurt him to be cold for a while. “Perhaps I could send some soldiers out to search the area.”

His voice startled both of them; it was so loud in the quiet of the forest. The birds and small animals had fled the demons…or been killed by them. The creatures hardly discriminated.

She whirled toward him, eyes wide, the yellow in them gleaming eerily as she met his gaze. She looked like she’d expected him to be right behind her, ready to cleave her in two.

He had to fight a scowl. A few years ago he might have been ready to drag her in for questioning—she certainly acted suspicious enough to warrant investigation—but now…he liked to think he was a better man now, though the way she tiptoed around him made him wonder if he wasn’t simply lying to himself.

After all, it was seeming harder and harder to move passed his past, of late. Especially without the lyrium….

 _No_.

Cassandra had seen something worthwhile in him.

This mage was just afraid of everyone.

Mostly everyone.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was a frustrated growl, which he instantly regretted. He knit his brow together and took a breath before trying again. This time he just sounded only slightly irritated, and he decided it was good enough. “I know you’re a healer, and everything I’ve heard says that you use your magic to serve man, as the Chant commands. We could not ask for more.”

“People always ask for more,” she replied, almost instantly, her voice a light lilt. The way she spoke…her accent was almost Ferelden, but not quite. Chasind, perhaps? It would certainly make sense if she was from the Kocari Wilds, as Leliana seemed to think.

While he expected her to launch into a speech on the whims of mankind and their innate desires to force others to do their bidding or…some such nonsense, she fell silent again.

He carefully took a few short steps toward her, holding a hand out, palm up. “I swear to the Maker and His Bride: unless you give me reason to think you’re a malificar, I won’t raise my blade against you.”

She narrowed her eyes slowly, taking a few careful steps toward him, then abruptly half turning and beginning a wide circle around him. He started to turn with her, and then sighed, letting her slip out of his view for a few seconds before turning the other way to make sure she hadn’t simply bolted. She was still there, finishing her assessment. She stopped when she reached her starting point, a full circle.

“Such an oath is meaningless if one without faith speaks it.”

“I happen to believe,” he replied, shifting his weight and tilting his head as he watched her.

“So you say.”

“I am no longer of the Order. It is not my job to regulate what spells you use, so long as they are not—”

“Blood or demons,” she murmured, almost dismissively. “I’ve never favored either.” She crossed her arms, walking up to him until they were actually a comfortable talking distance apart. “Never saw a point in hurting someone to help another. That would cancel itself out, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never seen blood magic end well, regardless of whether it was used to ‘help’ or not.”

They stood there, another silence threatening to smother them. She drummed her fingers against her arms, letting her gaze wander, though it always snapped back to him after a few seconds. His face, and down…

Cullen realized his hands were poised on the hilt of his blade. He released it instantly, his hands hovering just above his sword before he crossed his arms, not sure what else to do with them.

Finally, she nodded, though the action was more for herself. “You’re an odd sort, Commander Rutherford.”

He managed a fleeting smile at the comment. “I suppose that would make us the pot and kettle, wouldn’t it?”

“What nonsense are you on about?” She abruptly hopped back a pace, letting her gaze sweep the area, a frown settling on her features. “Kitchen utensils are hardly going to help us find my things.”

“Speaking of,” he brought up a hand and coughed to clear his throat, pausing when he considered he still hadn’t offered her his gloves, “I can tell you’re lost. Let’s go back to Haven before night falls. I’d rather not freeze out here. I’ll send a search party in the morning to retrieve your belongings.”

“No.”

She didn’t even look at him as she rejected the idea, instead beginning to trot through the woods, headed a bit south of the tree she’d so painstakingly examined earlier. With a sigh he ran his fingers through his hair, only to frown when he felt a curl settle onto his forehead. He tried to smooth it back as he followed her. She still kept a certain distance from him, but it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it had been before.

She drew her hair over her shoulder, picking at the ribbon she’d used to tie it up. It looked like it was on the verge of unraveling on one end.

A gust of wind sent shivers through both of them. It was getting colder. He pulled loose one of his gloves. “Here.”

With a pause, she glanced back at him, to his outstretched hand that held the leather. She tilted her head a little, inspecting the glove as though it were a foreign, bizarre thing.

Then she shook her head and started walking again. “It shouldn’t be much further.”

Cullen sighed and put his glove back on. “I’ll humor you another twenty minutes,” he said, catching up to her, at a distance that respected her paranoia. “Then we’re going back, even if I have to drag you—”

A knowing look flickered in her eyes as she spun to walk backwards for a few steps. “To do that, you’d have to catch me first.”


	5. A Hard Call

“To do that, you’d have to catch me first.”

Commander Rutherford hadn’t lunged for her when she’d said that. That counted for something, though what, Finley couldn’t say.

She wasn’t sure why she’d said that, either.  

The dear commander was already annoyed and stressed, so she’d figured it wouldn’t take much to provoke him. That was why she’d been so quiet for most of their journey. The mere fact that he was a templar made her tongue sharp.

And yet when she had allowed herself a few quips, he’d barely even changed his demeanor at all. When she’d all but challenged him to catch her, he’d merely given her a tired look and kept his pace the same as it had been.

However stressed he might be, it wasn’t like the kind of exasperation she was used to. He would be hard to break if she ever decided to try. Perhaps it was for the best if that never happened.

She dared a glance at the commander to see him stepping around some frozen brush, vexation plain on his face. The wind and moisture had gotten to his hair, curling the brushed back waves, and making him look like he’d been lost in the woods for days rather than roughly an hour and a half. The frost left the tip of his nose and his cheeks rosy, a stark comparison to the dark circles under his eyes.

Her twenty minutes had been up for almost ten, but he’d yet to insist they go back. Perhaps he was simply bad at keeping track of time, or perhaps this was some trick. It was oddly nerve-wracking that he was being so…cooperative. Helpful.

Perhaps he was one of the good templars.

Of course, even the good templars would try to clap you in irons and take you to a Circle, but still.

So long as she was careful, they could be of use to one another, surely. Not to mention that lovely little fact that there were no Circles to be taken to any longer. She was quite certain she’d earned more than a few people’s disapproval when she’d learned that all of the Circles had truly fallen and had said it was for the best.

Yes…this little outing might not be so bad. It certainly could have been worse.

And it was nice not to have people chattering on at her about how she needed to save the world. She’d done what she could, and it hadn’t been enough. There was talk about going to Val Royeaux, but she doubted her opinions would matter much on that. Seeker Pentaghast would go, defend the Inquisition, and Finley would be pointed toward the nearest rifts to mend.

At least, that’s what she was hoping. It seemed less and less likely when she considered the whole Herald of Andraste title, but without hope, life was destitute indeed.

Just as she was about to concede that perhaps she _was_ a little lost—not that she wanted to go back—she caught sight of one of her markings. They were little more than thumbprints of lyrium and water, something most eyes wouldn’t catch. She’d worried mages might find them and go on a treasure hunt, but then, since most of the ones going to the Conclave were Circle mages, she had assumed that they wouldn’t dare the woods when there was a decent enough road a few miles west.

After all, there was no sense in getting their precious robes dirty.

Another mark glimmered a few yards away, off to her left. She let out a triumphant laugh and darted after it, throwing her ponderings of Commander Rutherford’s trustworthiness to the ever-present winds. She heard him call for her to wait, but she didn’t feel like standing about while he trod around the underbrush that had been picking up as they went. Honestly, the man was too careful.

She lithely launched herself over small shrubs, hopping up and gripping branches to swing over larger ones, sometimes jumping high enough to propel herself from a tree trunk. She felt better than she had in days, almost as well as she’d felt before she’d left for the Conclave.

For just a moment, she was herself, before all this horrid madness spiraled out of control. The wind was her only companion, and its chilling touch left her free of all cares.

The hiss pulled her from her reverie.

A gangly, awkward creature loomed up from what felt like nowhere. Its jaws were opened in a hideous snarl as its claws caught her in the side. She’d been mid lunge over a small bush and, unable to veer off course, she cursed under her breath as the creature’s momentum added to her own and sent her flying into the ground. She hit hard enough that she bounced once, cracking her elbow, and then slid into the base of a tree.

She gasped. However, the attack wasn’t enough to leave her disoriented. She was used to this sort of thing—albeit the attacker wasn’t generally a demon. A soft white light flickered to life around her fingertips. Using her good arm, she brushed her fingers along her side and then up to her hurt elbow.

Most of her spells weren’t very powerful in one hit, as those required longer strings of syllables, which meant templars could interrupt them. Instead, this cast was an instant cast that ticked slowly, mending her more damaged areas over a few seconds, allowing her to recover if she could keep out of reach. Accompanying it was a soothing numbness that helped her stagger to her feet before the creature could crash down on her, missing as it sunk its great claws into the earth. Even as her spell ticked, knitting flesh back together and repairing the fracture to her radius, the demon recovered and turned toward her, claws arched and ready for another attack.

As it eyed her, her mind turned toward her other spells. Healing alone wouldn’t get her out of this. Perhaps a snare…? But what if the commander saw? How would she explain that she’d been lying about her magic?

A low hiss escaped the demon’s throat.

Now was not the time to worry about an audience.

The spell died on her lips, however, as the creature lunged toward her, only to have a shield slam into it.

Then Commander Rutherford was moving past her, blade drawn and gleaming, like he was a hero from a child’s storybook.

His sword slammed through the creature’s chest. The demon, in turn, let out a wailing shriek before its body flickered and twisted into that sickening green light that marked the tears in the Veil. The light shot through the air, as though being drawn back to something.

Like the demons from the rifts she’d seen on the way to the Breach.

Well, fuck.

Several shrieks echoed back to them. Commander Rutherford swore to the Maker, reaching out to Finley and pulling her partially behind him in a quick motion.  “We have to go.”

“My things are—”

“No use to us if you’re dead.” As he spoke, he dared to examine her, brow furrowing when he realized that her injuries had been reduced to minor bruises and scrapes. She had to fight back a small bubble of pride. She always surprised templars when she actually had to use magic in front of them.

He straightened a bit from his battle stance and turned to face her. Even as his gaze flitted to the blood staining her tunic and then the already smoothing skin visible through the cuts in the fabric, a slight green glint off his armor caught both of their attention.

They looked down to see eerie green ripples covering the snow beneath their feet. Before either could move, a body erupted up between them, sending them both flying backwards, crashing into the snow.

The demon leapt at Commander Rutherford, claws slashing as it screeched.

He kicked it square in the stomach and rolled to the side, on his feet quickly, despite the weight of his armor slowing him down. He’d be a frightening sight in leathers.

There were still more shrieks echoing through the woods around them, getting closer. She wouldn’t be able to keep him healed and keep herself out of their reach. And she didn’t want to find out if he was strong enough to take on however many demons were coming by himself.

At this rate, she’d have to resort to her other spells, and then he and the Inquisition would know that she wasn’t strictly a healer, as she’d claimed.

Unless…

She cast a quick shield over him to block the creature’s strikes for a few precious seconds, as well as a heal over time spell that she hopped would mend any injuries that might befall him while she had to turn away.

Finley looked around for her marks, and took off.

Though she heard Commander Rutherford yell for her to wait, she ignored him again. This time, however, she was alert. Her gaze kept moving, taking in her surroundings, no longer so completely focused on her task. She followed her marks on the trees another few yards before she came to the base of a weathered, old oak.

She barely slowed, jumping and pressing her feet firmly against the trunk before propelling herself up, into the branches. Ice tried to deny her grip as she dug her nails into bark, hauling herself up, keeping her momentum.

Hidden well in the upper branches of the old tree was a decent sized satchel. Two belts had been tied together in such a way to keep it against the tree branches, and a bow and quiver hung off the branch, held up by the belts as well.

Dozens of little pouches and flasks were tucked against or hanging off of the belts, the fruits of her years of alchemical research. There were healing tonics, mana regeneration potions, sleeping powders, and so on.

She undid the knot in her belts, catching her bow and quiver and shouldering them before carefully balancing the satchel so that she could hook her belts around her waist. When that was in place, she gripped her bag and let it carry her most of the way down, letting go in the last few feet to catch herself on a branch and swing out of the way of landing on her belongings.

As her feet thudded into the snow, she began running back the way she had come, hoping that the commander had fared well in the short time he’d been on his own. Surely, he had. After all, he was the commander for a reason.

When she got a clear shot of where he stood, toe to toe with four demons, she pulled her bow from her shoulder and notched an arrow, praying that her aim would be decent after what felt like an eternity of not having shot anything.


	6. The Mender and Her Shield

Cullen could feel magic surrounding him, and a small part of him felt nauseous. He hated magic, especially when it was cast _on_ him, though he’d spent the last few years coming to accept that some could be used for good.

Wynne had been a good mage. She’d healed and helped, and even assisted him when he was at his worst, raving about the dangers of magic and insisting they keep her locked in the Circle. She’d just looked sad as she’d listened patiently to him, not bothering to argue. She’d had strong words for his knight-commander, though.

In Kirkwall, there had been a few mages who had seemed decent enough, but…Kirkwall was a bad example of damned near everything.

After all, it had been a renowned healer that more than a few templars had stayed quiet about and allowed to remain free who had caused so much devastation to the city.

It seemed no good deed went unpunished, when it came to magic.

Or perhaps it had been Meredith’s oppressive reign that had pushed that healer to such insanity. Some of the other templars had thought that many of the blood mages in general wouldn’t have been so desperate if they’d been afforded a few simple freedoms.

He didn’t think that excused their actions, but…it was a mire.

And regardless of its good uses, magic still made him uneasy.

It was so easily twisted into something terrible. It so easily twisted good people into something terrible.

 _Now_ was hardly the time for reflection on such things.

The Herald was fleeing.

With a shield bash to the face of the terror demon attacking him that sent it sprawling backwards, Cullen turned and tried to follow after her. She wasn’t _actually_ taking this fight as a cover to escape, was she? She might be an apostate, but she was also a healer—who borderline obsessively tended to those in need—and he had a hard time believing she’d actually abandon him to demons.

More importantly, she wasn’t a particularly strong mage, from what he could see, and they still needed her. He couldn’t keep her safe if they were separated. Cassandra would kill him if anything happened to her. They’d already talked about how the Herald would need to head to Val Royeaux, and she couldn’t very well do so if she was dead.

He’d barely made it a few steps when he had to dodge another of the demons. It slammed its hand into his shield hard enough that its claws went through the tempered metal. It wriggled its fingers just long enough that he was able to slip his arm out of the straps before it flung the shield off to the side.

That would have broken his damned arm.

Even as he parried a blow, the snow beneath him rippled. He barely managed to dart back before another demon lurched up from the ground. A fourth staggered jerkily next to the first one he had knocked back, closing in on him.

The first one lunged forward, and he caught its hands with his sword, slicing off fingers. The creature howled, and the others shot toward him.

An arrow caught one in the shoulder, stopping it in its advance and sending it stumbling back. Another flew a bit too close to Cullen’s head for his liking and slammed into one of the other beast’s throats.

As that one turned into that horrid light, Commander Rutherford ran his sword through the one with the arrow in its shoulder, and then finished off the one missing its fingers with another slash. As it fell, the last lunged at him, and he swung fast and hard, meeting it midair.

Its head spun off, though it disappeared before it hit the ground. Its body turned to light and drew back through the trees just as he felt its pressure crashing against him.

Cullen stood there, gulping down breath and replaying the fight in his head.

The arrows.

He whirled around to see the Herald had a bow hanging off her shoulder as she trotted away from him, toward a lump beneath one of the nearer trees that he was sure hadn’t been there before. A satchel. A few broken branches lying in the snow around it and hanging in the old oak implied that it had been hidden _in_ the tree rather than near it. His men would have had a poor time finding that.

Knots curled in his stomach as he considered what would have happened without her help. He was a good fighter, but no one liked four against one odds, especially when the creatures had claws almost as long as a sword.

He stormed across the frozen ground to where she’d knelt, shouldering her pack. However, even as he reached her, she jolted to her feet and whirled to face him. Those eerie eyes were on him, wide.

He took in a few breaths, realizing that he had no reason to be glaring at her as he was. He forced himself to relax, some of the tension leaving him. “You could have said something.”

“About what?” She took her bow off her shoulder again, holding it as though ready for more demons to attack at any second. Or was she expecting him to?

“I don’t know,” he sheathed his sword and ran his fingers along the back of his neck, breathing out slowly. “That you were coming back?”

“I already said I’d help fix the sky,” she retorted. Her grip tightened on her bow.

She _had_ said that. And there was nothing she’d done thus far to indicate otherwise.

Could it be that he was simply being so hard on her because she _was_ a mage? Because he feared what she would or wouldn’t do? Without saying anything, he turned away, scanning the nearby area for his shield and then picking his way through the frigid bushes until he could gather it. Aside from the claw marks, it was still decent enough to keep with him until he got back to Haven.

Ser Harritt was going to have a fit. He’d just crafted the shield with the Inquisition’s eye a few days ago.

Perhaps this would be enough to persuade the blacksmith to make something a little bit heavier, closer to a templar’s shield.

As he dusted a bit of ice and broken brambles off it, he looked back to see that his charge had trailed after him. She was still keeping a bit of space between them, body tense, expression wary.

In addition to her pack and bow, she had two belts tied about her waist, crisscrossing. Dozens of little pouches and flasks lined each one, and he suddenly understood why she’d wanted to get them. She was more than just an assistant to Adan. She was an actual, trained alchemist.

Whatever her shortcomings might be with magic, she likely made up for them with the bow and potions. Suddenly her being from the Wilds wasn’t so farfetched. He still had his doubts on Leliana’s theory, of course. Inspecting her carefully, he motioned to her. “Hardly the tools of a witch.”

“I never said I was one,” she retorted, irate. She gave him a once over before shaking her head and muttering, “Honestly…”

They both stood there, catching their breath. He’d never seen a mage sprint that fast, though most of them were typically encumbered with robes. With his armor, she’d have been hard to keep up with, though he could have. As silence settled over them, he motioned to her bow. “Nice shooting.”

She adjusted her grip. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you I only hit one of the ones I was aiming for.”

“Well, regardless, it bought me the time I needed,” Cullen offered, a half smile tugging at his lips and the scar that rested on the top one when she paused to give him a narrowed glare.

The action was short lived. As if on cue, a loud crack echoed through the woods, followed by more shrieks.

The herald responded instantly, drawing an arrow and notching it, though she kept it pointed toward the ground between them. Without a word, Cullen redrew his blade and rolled his shield arm, readying himself.

The two exchanged a single glance before heading toward the noise. It might have been easier, even more sensible, to try to make a run for Haven, but they were over an hour away. It would be better to try to seal the rift, rather than fighting off waves of demons that spawned behind them.

They could just barely see the light of the rift through the trees when another terror demon attacked, the ripples forming beneath their feet. This time, they were ready, both of them dodging out of the way before it could surface. Cullen lunged back as it came up and, before it could even rise from its crouch, cleaved his blade through its shoulder. She kept after the rift, pausing once to shoot another demon as it became visible through the trees.

A third demon shot out of the ground near her, tackling her and hissing in her face. As it snapped down at her, she reached into one of the pouches on her belts, grabbed a handful of something, brought it up, and blew whatever it was into the creature’s eyes. The demon wailed, reeling backward as the powder blinded it. Even as it reached for its face in agony, Cullen managed to close the distance between them and with a swift swing, the monster’s head was free of its shoulders.

Something crunched in the snow behind him, and he whirled around, catching yet another demon in the stomach with his sword.

As its body turned to light, the rift went dormant.

The Herald rolled onto her feet and shoved her hand toward it, palm out.

Light crackled, magic tingled all around them, the air cracked, and then all that was left of the rift was remnant splotches across Cullen’s vision that made it hard to see in the evening light. As he blinked past them, he winced, feeling a pain shooting through his left thigh. He looked down and grimaced. His leather pants were splotched with blood that slowly oozed from three long claw marks—when had he even gotten them? They weren’t terribly deep, and he doubted he’d bleed out.

That didn’t make them sting any less, a sensation made worse by the miserable cold.

“You…should be more careful.”

She was doubled over a little ways ahead of him, leaning against her knees to catch her breath. Her hair was somehow even messier than it had been before, a few twigs and streaks of snow littering her braid.

He sheathed his sword and shouldered his shield. “Says the woman who was tackled by a demon. Twice.”

“I believe you were knocked over by one, too,” She stood up, slowly, testing her limbs before trotting up to him, her gaze on his leg. “I guess that makes us both pretty terrible at this.”

“I’d say we did well enough. We’re alive, aren’t we?” He tried not to look wobbly as she came to a stop in front of him and knelt. Abruptly, he wished she would go back to keeping her distance.

She reached out, letting her fingers drag down the lowest of the rips in his pants so that she could see the wound better. Before he could protest that she needn’t waste her energy, she tapped her fingers against his exposed skin, murmuring something too soft for him to hear.

Instantly, the pain in his leg was replaced with a numb sensation. As it faded, only the cold nipping at his bare skin was left, a slight discoloration the only mark that he’d been injured at all.

She heaved herself back to her feet, inspecting his leg one more time before nodding, a satisfied look on her face. “Tis a good thing that wasn’t too serious, hmm?” She glanced up at him. “You know, you don’t have to look like I just demanded your first born.” She had dropped her pack at the edge of the clearing during the fighting, and she hurried over to retrieve it, inspecting it to make sure she hadn’t broken anything when she’d tossed it aside.

He walked after her, feeling oddly like he owed her for her healing, even if it had been unbidden. “Would you like me to carry that?”

“I appreciate the offer, commander,” she said, hoisting it up, careful not to jostle her bow or quiver. “But I think I’ll like my living shield to have his hands free, if he needs them.”

“And here I thought you’d forgotten about that,” he murmured, turning in time with her and beginning toward Haven, “what with you leading the charge.”

“I am not used to having a shield, so you’ll have to give me some time to grow accustomed.” She paused, frowning. “Though, no offense to you, I’d rather not have to get too acquainted with such fighting.” She peered up through the trees, toward the edges of the Breach. She let out a sigh as they reentered the trees, and the old pines obscured it from view.

She was rubbing her hands together.

“If you don’t have any gloves in that pack of yours, just take mine.”

“And leave you to get blisters, should you need to draw that sword?”

His hand was resting on the pommel again. He started to move it, but stopped himself, relaxing. “I’m sure I’ll manage, somehow.”

With an exaggerated sigh, she let her bag thud to the ground and opened it, digging through a few folded pieces of cloth and leathers that looked like extra clothes. Just as he saw the corner of an old book, tucked safely beneath all the rest of her things, she pulled out a pair of leather gloves and let the latched lid of her pack fall back down.

A grimoire, perhaps?

She buckled the top into place, shouldered her things, and then jerked her gloves into place. They fit her rather snuggly. She held her hands up, fingers splayed. “Happy?”

“You’re not?”

Though she eyed him a moment, she shrugged her shoulders and picked up her pace, weaving her way through the trees as though she’d lived in the area her whole life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since most of the chapters for this story are kind of short, I was thinking I might start updating this twice a week instead of once. If anyone has a preference, I'd be happy to hear.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Too Many Memories

They’d been walking back for about half an hour when Finley felt his gaze lingering on her. Prior to that, he’d been mostly concerned his footing—she’d looked back a few times to check. The ground had evened out, and the brush was growing scarce as they neared Haven. The way back was going much faster, with the Breach as a constant direction marker. One just needed to glance up for a few minutes until its eerie funnel became visible through the branches to know one was headed in the right direction.

Commander Rutherford was following after her a few paces behind, but she didn’t see why he was bothering. He’d caught her. Granted, he’d been concerned about protecting her at the time, but still.

He’d _caught_ her. He’d had a very firm grip on her arm that she doubted she would have been able to twist out of.

While it hadn’t been enough to hurt her, it _had_ hurt her pride as a Wilds’ apostate.

Blaming the cold or a fear of demons or anything else wouldn’t change that fact.

Part of her tried to piece it together, anyway. She _was_ weak from all the nonsense with being in the Fade and then trying to seal the Breach. In the last two weeks, she’d slept over half of it.

Plus, her shoes were uncomfortable, and she _was_ cold and stiff, and he had to be the commander for a reason. And she always froze up around demons. She hated them.

They reminded her of lonely nights and pulled hair and crying song birds.

They were _wrong_.

And now they were everywhere, and _she_ was the one who was going to have to send them back.

How many other places would she have to go to find twisted victims, dead littering fields and roads, everything?

For a moment, she thought she could hear a woman calling her, telling her to run. The smell of ash and burned flesh blossomed up, making her want to gag. Someone was crying, screaming, in the distance. It was cut off by a giant crack, and she was being chased by _some_ thing. Wrong things.

Demons.

There were so many corpses.

There had been a mage couple from when she’d first entered the building, whispering to one another in a corner. They hadn’t trusted the Conclave, and the man had been on the verge of a breakdown, but the woman had kept holding him, whispering that things would be okay as she ran her dark, slender fingers over his hair. The meetings would go well, and they’d have their freedom. They’d get married in the grand cathedral and write his parents a scathing letter for the years they’d pretended he wasn’t theirs.

Bodies were half melded together, the heat of the explosion leaving it impossible to tell where one ended and another began.

Had that happened to the mage couple?

Were their faces left in permanent screams, their dreams chased from their minds in the last seconds of their lives? Had whatever gods were out there been merciful enough to let them not see that horrid fate coming? To let them dream until the end?

There were too many dead.

“Herald?”

His voice was in her ear, and she jumped, feeling the pull of ash and magic and wrongness as it tried to drag her down into the void with it.

She blinked a few times. They were still in the woods, with snow beginning to fall in fluffy, fat clumps. The tree branches were scraggly and forlorn looking, wiry hands trying to catch the snowflakes only to have them slip easily through their fingers and to the ground below.

Commander Rutherford was standing beside her, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding one of hers, steadying her.

Had she almost fallen?

Looking down, she saw one of her boots tangled in some withered brambles.

“If you’re tired, I could carry you.” His offer was sincere enough, but a dry bark of a laugh escaped her before she could stop herself.

She pulled her hand free from him, coughing slightly as she looked ahead. She could see Haven’s lights whispering through the skinny tree trunks, beckoning them forward with promises of warm fires.

And people.

Oh, how she hadn’t let herself enjoy these past few hours without them everywhere.

Granted, she _had_ had company, and the demons had hardly made this a leisurely stroll. Still, the thought of being back in a place where _someone_ was everywhere brought a slouch to her shoulders.

“Commander Rutherford, you seem to be a good man, and I do not say that lightly,” she said, slipping out from under his hand, “and please don’t take this wrong, but the Maker will make a personal appearance in Thedas before a templar carries me anywhere.”

“Very well, though I will point out that I’m not a templar any longer.” His hand hovered near her arm until she’d untangled herself from the brush and begun walking again. He fell into stride at her side, not bothering with the distance. It wasn’t like it made a difference.

He’d caught her again.

She felt like smacking her head against the next tree she passed. This whole mess had made her careless and lost to her own memories. As she glanced at him, however, she paused. He was watching her from the corner of his eye, as though trying to sneak a glance would somehow slip her notice.

She might be rattled, but she wasn’t _that_ rattled.

But she _was_ too tired to make any offhanded comments or try to shake his calm. He could have a victory tonight. She’d think of some way to get him back for his unknowing involvement in breaking her streak of…how many years had it been since a templar had actually managed to get close enough to lay a hand on her?

Though…if he was saying he wasn’t one…

She could feel that same presence that all templars had coiled deep inside of him. Wasn’t a templar her ass.

“So why a bow?”

She frowned. “What’s wrong with a bow?”

He shrugged, holding a branch up so that the two of them could walk under it. “I’ve never heard of a mage using one before.”

“Now you have.”

“Now I’ve seen,” he corrected, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth and tugging on the small scar on his lip when she gave him an irritated eye roll. “You could have told us you don’t use a staff in Haven. We’d have accommodated you.”

She was too tired to spin her words in circles, and the thought of sleep was almost as horrifying as just going back to the demons and hugging one. Her dreams were not particularly pleasant of late.

If she closed her eyes too long, she saw the people who had died, saw the charred bodies that Seeker Pentaghast had led her past on their trek to the Breach. She felt like she saw them die, though when she woke up, she only ever had a vague sense of dread and knots in her stomach.

When she realized his brow had furrowed, she rolled her eyes again and shrugged. “I picked it up when I was little. Nothing screams ‘mage’ like a staff, and it’s easier to hunt with a bow.”

“Were fireballs too cliché for your liking?”

Finley focused her attention on the ground ahead of them, making certain she wouldn’t slip and fall into his arms. If word ever made it back home, she’d never live _that_ down. “Too many people use magic to hurt others. I don’t want to be like that.” She glanced away, not wanting to catch a glimpse of his face as she spoke. “Magic is beautiful, but it’s not something that’s likely to be appreciated if it looks like lightning flying toward your face.”

His laugh was a little awkward, but kind. “As someone who’s had lightning flung at my face, I can agree with that.”

For what felt like the first time in forever, her memories slipped back further than the Conclave, past nights curled up beside a weak fire, or sneaking quietly through heavy woods. Sturdy walls that kept the cold as a distant whisper loomed around her and someone held her tiny hand, their smile framed by a short, well-trimmed beard.

A deep, kind laugh escaped those ghostly lips, and a pang of pain trilled through her.

A whisper of cold kissed her cheek, and she realized that the snow was coming down harder. She was still walking, but her stride had slowed dramatically. Commander Rutherford was ahead of her, turned so that he could see her, one hand resting on his pommel, as always. The other was slightly outstretched, as though he might offer it when she met his gaze. A few snowflakes glistened in his curly hair, like little wisps peeking out of the Fade at her.

He nodded his head toward Haven.

“Coming?”

Anger flickered in her gut.

Finley angled a little around him, keeping her ten paces distance. “If I were going to run, I would have done it when the demons were about, to make sure you couldn’t follow me.”

“That’s not…what I meant.” The commander sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. However, he waited until she was parallel to him before matching her pace, keeping just far enough away that she could run, if she wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads!


	8. Shifting Tide

Finley was at a loss.

The morning after she and the commander had gone to get her belongings, Seeker Pentaghast had declared that she would be leading a small group—with Finley included, of course—to Hinterlands to speak with a Mother Giselle about something to do with the Chantry. The seeker had said they would need some time to get things together, but would be headed off in the next day or so.

Finley had quickly suggested that they leave before noon.

After all, she could gather who would need to be going—it was to be a small party that could move quickly, so she’d figured Solas and Varric would likely be the rest of their merry little band—and then get any materials that might be required.

She hadn’t slept much the night before and had spent the night going through her pack, making sure that everything was in place. Her clothes, her reagents, her potions, her book. She’d almost flipped through it over a dozen times, but hadn’t been able to get herself to open the it.

There was a…it wasn’t magic per se, not in the sense people would understand, but there was something about that old tome that meant the world to her, and part of her was terrified that if she opened it now, whatever had happened at the Conclave would have found a way to destroy even the simplistic comforts found within those precious pages.

And so she’d kept it tucked away at the bottom of her satchel, resisting the urge to dig it out every time her mind wandered in that direction.

Having it near was enough.

For now.

Aside from her book, the rest of her things had been welcome comforts as well.

Her makeup was mostly dark shades that blended in well enough with shadows, and her clothes were not as well tailored as what most wore in Haven. Her undershirt was made from spiders’ silk that had been soaked in her own special concoction to tone down the stickiness of it. It made it smoother, but it also fell apart more dramatically as time went on. As it was, there were holes dotting her sleeves, as well as wisps of silk strands coming loose around the hems.

She’d been intending to gather more silk from the spiders to make a new one as soon as she returned home.

Now who knew how long this undershirt would have to last.

Aside from that, she had a dull green, hooded leather overcoat that sported its own runs and frays showing the wear of use. Her pants were leather as well, tucking into sturdy boots that could weather mud and ice, snow and rocks. They were her newest article of clothing, though they still looked about as worn as the rest of her gear.

That tended to happen when one made a habit of being on the run constantly.

However, unkempt as her clothes seemed to a few—she’d heard the murmurs as she passed—they were hers, and she felt more at ease in them than she had in weeks.

Despite braiding her hair and setting it back in her lowered hood, her hair still found a way to slip free and fall haphazardly around her face and neck.

She thought she’d heard someone whisper something about a witch as she’d headed out to find Solas and Varric and tell them to pack their things—Seeker Pentaghast had seemed a bit suspicious of her willingness to help, but had accepted it in the end, after appraising her for what had felt like an eternity—but when Finley had looked around to see who had leveled such an accusation, she hadn’t been able to find them.

A spell would have singled the bastard out, but that might have also raised questions as to just what kinds of spells she could cast aside from healing ones, and that was not a conversation she was going to have with anyone here.

Ever.

Well, except for maybe Solas. He seemed like a decent sort, fellow apostate and all. Perhaps they could trade a secret or two.

Though they’d have to find somewhere more isolated to even talk about magic. After all, she wasn’t about to engage in such a conversation where templars could hear.

In no time, she, Varric, and Solas had been waiting near the gate, bags packed, supplies gathered, with Cassandra’s pack resting next to Finley’s feet. Varric had teased her that she looked ready to run, but Solas had dismissed his comments, stating it would merely be pleasant for all of them to stretch their legs. Finley had wholeheartedly agreed at that.

However, before they could head off onto the road, the seeker arrived with Commander Rutherford in tow.

The very person she’d been so eager to leave behind.

The night before, when they’d been on their little adventure, he’d stirred something, a half-forgotten wound, old and deeper than anything a blade could inflict.

She hadn’t wanted to see him again. She hadn’t wanted to risk him knocking loose anymore scabs. Yet there he stood, watching her, mildly perplexed, even as Seeker Pentaghast seemed surprised that even her belongings had been gathered.

“May I speak with you a moment?” He’d gestured to the side, a little ways off the road.

Finley had felt trapped. There was no way to talk about what had happened between them—assuming that was even what he wanted to talk about—without talking about what had happened so many years ago, and seeing as she’d made it thus far without telling a soul, she’d be damned if she’d let him break _all_ of her streaks.

“Commander Rutherford,” she’d fixed him with a stern look, arms crossed, head tilted back ever so slightly. “Before you ask something of me again, please take a moment to inspect that garish bruise raining demons upon us and then tell me if whatever your needs are outweigh those of the sky.”

He blinked a few times, quickly. “I…of course not. This will only take a moment—”

“And how many people do you think are going to insist on simple moments throughout this endeavor of ours? How many people will be so horridly slighted just because I felt ensuring the waves of demonic creatures battering our precious world were stemmed?” Even as he slowly closed his mouth, she turned so that she was facing the Breach, taking a long side step away from him, though she could still see him from the corner of her eye. “Honestly, I would think you would be more encouraging of a prompt departure, rather than trying to prolong it, for such things just leave us open to _more_ people coming up to steal more simple moments and—”

“I will speak with you when you return,” he interrupted. With a swift bow, he turned to leave, one corner of his lips tipped up so that it tugged at the scar on his lip. “Safe travels, Herald. Seeker.” He nodded to the other two before heading back into the village.

There had been a tone to his voice that Finley was rather unfamiliar with. No disdain, no exasperation. It had been something almost friendly.

Or perhaps cocky.

She’d spent the next hour suspicious of every leaf that rattled through the trees, sure that a templar ambush of some sort had to be imminent.

After all, templars tended to smirk when they thought things were going according to their plans. She must have walked into some trap, though she couldn’t fathom what it could be.

However, no attack came.

It took them a week to travel from Haven to where they met Scout Harding at the Inquisition’s first official camp outside of Haven.

Finley had seen the scenery before, to some degree, but it was a welcome change from that demon-rampaged misery. And she’d been thrilled to be leaving Haven and its throngs of people. The chill in the air never quite left—honestly, she didn’t want it to—but the greenery brightened her spirits. She could almost pretend that she was on her way home.

The mark always tingled or outright ached to remind her such things were dreams.

During the week, she had finally loosened up enough to abandon her constant vigilance and hunt for hunters, allowing herself to fall into casual banter with her companions. She and Solas had spent time going over her inventory of dried herbs and powders. Varric and Seeker Pentaghast had listened in too, on occasion, though most of what the mages said went over their heads. They’d talked about magic and the mingling of it with alchemy.

Varric had asked why study healing tonics when a simple spell could mend a bone?

She’d chosen to ignore that there was nothing ‘simple’ about mending bones and pointed out that magic could be expended or bound temporarily, and Solas had agreed that it made sense to have back up.

She could name almost every herb and plant and tree they passed, though some of the names were ones she’d made up herself so that she could keep track. She’d been thrilled every time one of her companions had been able to tell her an ‘official’ title for the pretty flowers or slender leaves of something she used often.

While they traveled, Varric entertained them with tales of adventure—some even real. Seeker Pentaghast explained different cultural elements, after Finley mentioned that she wasn’t really familiar with most social expectations. However, the occasional bitter tone to the seeker’s voice made her wonder how accurate her explanations were.

Everything felt…peaceful. Pleasant. Nice.

The smell of death and fear was replaced with wildflowers and fresh leaves. Babbling brooks and pleasant conversation replaced the cries of horror and a deep voice that she could never quite remember, but echoed through her mind none-the-less. She was able to sleep without dreaming of the dead. It still hurt to wake up and find herself tethered to that damned mark, but it was better.

Things were better.

Without even realizing it, she’d slipped into a comfortable acceptance of her fate, barely registering the way she let her attentiveness dull a little when the seeker was looking her way, not immediately worried about an attack of some sort.

And then they’d come across the fighting.

Finley had seen darkspawn sweep across areas, striking down innocents. She’d seen demons attack. Seen blood mages run rampant.

But in those events, there had always been a bad person, and the bad person had always paid for their crimes, in the end.

Now, it sounded almost like a fairytale to say that the good guys had always won, but…they had, in a way. The few blood mages she’d been unfortunate enough to encounter in her life had met terrible ends, cut down by mighty templars or Avvar or Chasind protecting their holds and homes.

Good had always prevailed.

But the people at the Crossroads. They’d just been people, killing each other. Neither side had been right—honestly, if the rumors held any semblance of truth, they were both rather wrong. The templars wished to eradicate magic and its users, and the mages had been so blinded by terror and rage that they were barely more than demons themselves.

At least, it had felt that way at first.

They’d stumbled upon the templars first—Finley had felt their gazes well before they’d come running out of their hiding place—and had turned on Finley and her group as they approached, despite their calls that they meant no harm.

Out of four, Seeker Pentaghast had disarmed two of them right away. She might have killed them, if Finley hadn’t messed up her damned spell and shielded them instead of the seeker.

The templars and her companions had all been confused. For a second, Finley hadn’t known what to do, either, terrified that they’d realize she wasn’t really a healer because she couldn’t even shield the right targets.

Finally, she’d clasped her hands in front of her and said, “Forgive me, but are we not here to put an end to the violence? I should think saving lives to be a more prominent goal than simply ending them for convenience’s sake.” With what she hoped didn’t look to be too nervous a smile, she’d motioned to Seeker Pentaghast. “Perhaps we can…talk through these issues? Surely we all want the world to be healed, yes?”

Despite having been told that anyone they might encounter out here would be mad with the war, the templars hadn’t acted as rabid beasts. Instead, they’d gathered their arms, suspicious, and grouped back, shields still ready in case Finley’s words had been a rouse. She’d kept as still and ‘relaxed’ as she could, and had noticed Solas take a similar stance near her.

They were both used to templars like this, the kind that truly hunted theirs.

One of the templars—a young man with a swarthy complexion and dozens of braids in his hair that had been pulled back into a loose ponytail—had whispered something about the Herald when he saw her. Another had hissed back that she was just Fade-touched.

At that, the other three had, despite their suspicion, eased their stances a bit further. Finley had rather expected that she would make her little speech to save face, and then the templars would attack again and they’d kill them and ho-hum about what a shame it was.

Instead, they’d at least seemed willing to listen, understanding that they were outmatched, so her blunder was not for nothing. Perhaps they’d simply hoped to buy time until reinforcements could arrive. Who could say?

However, before said reinforcements could appear or talks could begin, the mages had descended on them. Lightning had slammed down onto one of the templars, arcing through the air and catching another before Finley had realized what was happening. She’d managed to toss out a few shields to people in the general area—she really had no idea who at that point—and cast a few feeble heal over time spells. When cast on a target other than herself, they were about half as effective and twice as mana-consuming.

Seeker Pentaghast had called out that they meant no harm and that the fighting needed to stop. It had worked with the templars, and—in Finley’s position—they were likely more akin to mindless beasts than the mages would be, even riddled with fear as they were.

For a breath, it had seemed like it would work. Two of the mages had…well, they hadn’t canceled their spells, but they had held them, fire burning around finger tips and ice falling in soft flakes past palms, as though to see what would happen.

It was foolish to hold magic like that. It left one open to templar interrupts.

Even as Finley considered that, one of the remaining templars had shot past Seeker Pentaghast, interrupting one of the casters as he swung his blade into her neck, his friends’ deaths from that lightning fueling his fury.

In a breath, the other three mages’ spells had converged on him, ethereal flames eating away until there was nothing but bones and melted armor to collapse in a pile where he’d been.

Even as he fell, they’d turned on Finley’s group, no longer trusting the calls for peace. Seeker Pentaghast had interrupted a spell as she deflected another—the fireball ricocheted off her shield and into a tree, lighting the branches aflame. After a final call that the mages ignored, she charged toward the nearest one.

Finley tossed a shield around her that absorbed a lightning strike, feeling the pull of her mana straining her.

Don’t shield the wrong ones this time had echoed in her head over and over. As she tried to track her companions, shielding Varric from ice shards and casting a heal over time on Solas to mend a few burns as he conjured his own lightning. The mages knew how to deflect magic, however, and Solas was soon having to dodge his own spell as it was reflected back at him.

She didn’t doubt that had to hurt, if not him, then his pride. It would have hurt hers.

She felt the templar’s gaze on her quite abruptly. That prickling sensation in the back of her mind, that inner voice screaming to run, to get out of range before she could feel the blade piercing through her, overwhelmed her so abruptly that she drew her bow and an arrow and hunched to the ground on instinct, as though she might be able to disappear into the sparse leaves and grass underfoot.

These woods were not her Wilds, of course, and the cover was scarce.

Even as she looked for the templar, he was beside her, then in front of her, then blocking a spell with his shield.

She stayed where she was, frozen for a moment, barely breathing, arrow still notched, bow only half raised. He was between her and the rest of the fighting, and despite what she had just witnessed, she couldn’t say she believed it.

Templars didn’t save mages.

However, her inner turmoil was hardly his concern. He simply looked over his shoulder, made certain that she was in one piece and then charged at one of the other mages, interrupting his cast in time for Seeker Pentaghast to shield bash him and then run him through with her blade.

One of Varric’s arrows nailed a third mage in the forehead mid-cast.

Solas, growing quite frustrated with the deflections, dodged closer to the fourth mage, opting to swipe at him with his staff rather than keep wasting his mana. That threw the mage off. As she tumbled backward, Solas took advantage of the opening and called down lightning to strike her before she could shield herself.

As all of this happened, the last of the mages had decided to target Seeker Pentaghast with some spell. Finley could feel a vague pull of mana, but didn’t bother to try to grasp what kind. It didn’t matter. She had her bow in hand, and the mage was against her.

Without thinking, she aimed for the man’s arm and fired. The jolt of the arrow impacting him would interrupt his cast. While she doubted he’d want to work with them after they’d slain his companions, perhaps he was not completely beyond reason. Mages were a sensible sort. He would surely understand his own survival could be obtained. They could talk to him—maybe he could take them to where the other mages were holed up, and they could recruit them.

They could bolster their cause’s forces, gather enough mages that the templars in Haven were more preoccupied with everyone than just their dear Herald.

Unfortunately, her aim had been off. Her arrow had gone a bit too far to the right, just like the time she unintentionally almost murdered Commander Rutherford when they were fighting demons together. It should have missed the mage all together.

It should have, but he’d turned just as she’d fired, and the projectile had slammed into his chest.

He’d been about as surprised as she was. And then he’d just crumpled awkwardly, slouching down like he’d fallen asleep while sitting there in the middle of the road.

Or he would have looked like that, if not for that arrow sticking out of him.

She’d run up to where Seeker Pentaghast and the mage were, staring at him, wide-eyed, barely hearing as Varric voiced how impressed he was with her shot, a half laugh following his compliment.

The mage was dead.

There would be no healing him, no talking sense, no recruiting others.

Even as that was a mild disappointment—death was a constant in the Wilds, after all—an abrupt terror gripped her.

Would her companions call her on the fact that she’d taken life? Would they claim she couldn’t be a healer if she was so ‘good’ with a bow?

Good with a bow…

How many times had she had to use three or four arrows to catch a rabbit or two for dinner? How many times had the damned thing been injured and not dead from her shots? How many times did she just miss all together?

And now, not only had she missed the man’s arm, but she’d killed him…

Even as she’d tried to think of how best to play out the scenario—cry, maybe?—Solas had been next to her, rubbing her back and telling her she was alright. Fighting could be unnerving. These weren’t demons driven mad by the sky. These were people.

It must be so hard for a healer to have done what she’d done.

Apparently whatever look of horror that had settled onto her features had worked well enough in her favor. She’d nodded weakly, still not sure what to do next, and then looked around at the others to make sure they were alright. Her companions were unscathed, save for Seeker Pentaghast, who had a new, small cut on her cheek above her scar, nothing that truly required healing.

Finley had healed her anyway.

The last of the templars had left the field without a word to them.

Or so she assumed.

She hadn’t looked for another charred pile of bones.

Varric had spoken ill of the dead, about how they were mad with their war. Solas has condemned them with solemn reprimand, as though they were children who could learn from what they’d done wrong. Seeker Pentaghast had dismissed it as madness.

Finley hadn’t said anything.

She hadn’t known what to say.

It had left knots in her gut, and she’d walked with them quietly to the Crossroads, having to fight back the urge to just run. To go home to where she belonged. Home where it was quiet, where she didn’t have to worry about keeping other people alive or keeping up their expectations, where she didn’t have to fight.

Home.

It was so far away.

Seeker Pentaghast had been the one to speak to Mother Giselle on behalf of the Inquisition.

Finley had noticed a makeshift infirmary and wandered over, mechanically asking the healers there if she could help. There had been a hush before they’d welcomed her magic. She’d given tonics to the ones who didn’t want it, just like she’d done for those at Haven. Losing herself in her spells and the rhythm of binding wounds had been such a welcome distraction. It had been numbing.

She felt that the fighting shouldn’t have affected her so, but every time she gave herself pause, her hands were shaking and her breathing became unsteady. When she couldn’t place why, she finally dismissed it as the templar having gotten too close to her. That sort of thing always gave her the jitters.

Even so, that last mage’s face kept resurfacing in her mind, his expression surprised just before he fell.

They’d arrived at the Crossroads a little before noon, but it wasn’t until the sun was setting that Seeker Pentaghast came to gather her. She’d frowned when she’d seen Finley, telling her that they would rest in the Crossroads for the night and then head back to Haven with Mother Giselle.

Finley hadn’t slept that night.

She didn’t see it happen, the change that now had her baffled and anxious. She didn’t see it until it had already passed, already fallen into place.

Somehow, from the time she’d stepped into the Crossroads until then, the way people were looking at her had changed. There was no suspicion like in Haven, no anger or mistrust like from before the Conclave.

They looked _up_ to her.

As they’d gathered their things in the morning—Seeker Pentaghast giving her a strong look of reprimand to see that Finley had never bothered to rest—people had been…smiling.

At her.

When Finley and the others had left, there was still so much wrong, and yet…people had been thanking them, praising them.

She’d nodded her head to a few, smiled to others, but felt oddly out of place.

She was indeed at a loss. How did people normally handle this sort of praise? It rather felt like a trap of some sort, but there hadn’t seemed to be one. She and the others had left the Crossroads un-harassed, unharmed. Their spirits had all been brighter.

She supposed it made a sort of sense. They’d helped people. There were Inquisition forces following them, there to help protect the area from the warring forces.

It hit her rather abruptly, as she walked beside Solas, wandering their way higher into the mountains, heading home, that her merry little band were heroes of a sort, like the brave knights in children’s stories.

She nearly unshouldered her bags to pull out her book, to flip through those old pages and see if she could find any similarities to those old stories and her current one.

However, even as her fingers gripped the strap of her bag, she hesitated, that mage’s face flashing in her mind again. With a frown, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and kept going.

Whatever people might think of them, she didn’t feel much like a hero.


	9. Templars, Templars Everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to creepypasta-queen- on tumblr for beta reading for me!

Mother Giselle was talking to Seeker Pentaghast and the others in the Chantry about names of important people who would enable them to go to some city. Apparently Finley was going to be in attendance, as well.

The mere thought pained her.

That was mostly why she wasn’t present at the current meeting. It wasn’t like if she pointed out that her mending was needed in Haven that they’d let her stay, anyway.

The seeker would come find her and point her in the right direction to walk once they were done. On the way, surely she’d be reminded over and over to play nice and to do a million overthought things to make sure that the Inquisition and its Herald didn’t look foolish.

Don’t ask what colloquialisms meant. Don’t ramble about things that she didn’t really know about. Don’t ramble period. Try to let Seeker Pentaghast do most of the talking. Stay near the front, but don’t charge in.

So many things.

If they weren’t happy with her, they ought to declare someone else the Herald and just let her fall to the backlines, quietly sealing up rifts whilst some prattling noble entertained the masses. They could draw a mark on someone else’s hand, couldn’t they? If they did, she’d wager most anything that she could get it to glow for them. She could stand in the background and wear a hood, and they could tell people not to watch as the rifts were closed, on the unlikely occasion that someone was present to see it. No one would need to know that the figurehead wasn’t the one closing the rifts.

Not that any of that would work.

Too many people had seen her in the Hinterlands.

That was when she’d discovered she preferred when they ran away screaming and cursing her existence.

All this…acceptance was jarring. Didn’t they know she was a mage?

She pressed her forehead into her knees, the leather of her clothes groaning in protest. Josephine had gifted her a large scarf upon her return. It didn’t exactly match her clothes, but it was green and staved off the cold when it got to be too much. She’d wrapped around her neck over and over. It bunched up beneath her chin.

“Herald.”

Dammit.

She’d been rather hoping he’d forget about the promise of a talk upon her return.

“Commander.” Her tone was as dry as she could make it, and a small part of her hoped he would go away without her having to tell him to do so.

Boots crunched in place on the snow as he shifted his weight. “We could have used your input at the war meeting.”

That was a lie. They already had enough people arguing and grousing over what needed to be done…and she was fairly certain that Roderick fellow had returned to Haven with more condemnation and damnation falling from his lips. Praise Andraste; behead the Herald.

Truly, it was best she hadn’t been there. Her voice would have just added to the din. Not that she had much to say—other than, ‘This was fun, but I’m tired of being a beacon of hope, so please find someone else,’ of course.

The crunching of boots came closer. A hesitant, drawn in breath followed.

“If I did something to offend you—”

“Offend me?” she asked as innocently as she could, lifting her head up. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, hopping the slippery rocks near the frozen lake, getting to higher ground before he could try to clap a hand on her shoulder and…bond or whatever this was.

Acceptance was one thing. Bonding was another.

Those smiles from the Hinterlands were contagious, somehow, and it had spread back to Haven, where even those who had given her skeptical once overs seemed more friendly now. She didn’t know what to make of it, but it felt like the commander had somehow been the one to put this into motion—even if he hadn’t been present. She didn’t trust it one bit.

He’d been standing next to the lower rock she’d been seated on, and Commander Rutherford stared up at her on her new perch, brow arched. Then, with a fluid movement, he stepped up onto the rock she’d been on and leaned against the other, peering up at her. That one hand was resting on his damned hilt, like always. She considered making a comment about compensation or some other phallic reference, but she couldn’t do it. His damned concern was too genuine.

Not that it would last.

The second her usefulness was expended they’d all turn on her. Their ‘civilized’ world was not made for mages or magic, it pushed it away until it was hidden in shadows—or the Wilds.

That was fine. It was how things were, and Finley had accepted that a long time ago. The world didn’t change just because a little girl cried.

She looked away, drawing her legs to herself again as she glared out across the lake. Maybe he would go away.

“When we were coming back from getting your things, something happened,” Cullen began. She could hear the scratch of leather against skin. He was scratching the back of his neck. Again.

The man was a walking habit.

He was still talking. “I must’ve done something, though I admit I’m at a loss.”

“Go away.”

“I…what?” More crunching in the snow. The sound of a boot scuffing against stone. “Herald—”

“Commander, am I not playing nice with the others?” Finley snapped before she could stop herself. She peeked out at him from the corner of her eye to see that he was not amused, but also not going anywhere. “You have dealt with mages before, yes?”

“Of course,” he replied. For the first time in a while, he looked suspicious.

That made her feel better. With a wave of her hand, she sat back. “Then you know we are prone to whims. There is no answer you will get to your liking. Leave it at that.”

“I don’t think you’ve met as many mages as I have,” Commander Rutherford replied, a single brow quirked. “Everyone has a reason for what they do. Mages included.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Beg pardon?”

“What is your reason for this continued harassment?”

An indignant, frustrated scoff was the response.

She abruptly rolled toward him, laying out on her stomach, chin propped up in her hands as she stared down at him. “Well?”

Silence.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat. “It would simply do well if we could work together through this. I clearly offended you somehow. If you would just tell me what I did, I could at least attempt not to do so again.”

 _That_.

That sincerity to make amends—it seemed sincere enough, anyway—was the problem, absurd as it sounded. It would likely warrant her little more than a scowl if she told him the truth. Or worse, he’d demand to know what about his sincerity was so damning. If he was persistent enough, she’d have to turn him into something…a hare, maybe.

Or a kitten.

Regardless of what, it wouldn’t leave them on good standing. People in the ‘civilized’ world were so ridiculously afraid of polymorphism. As though being another animal for however long the spell duration was would fundamentally change who they were.

It hadn’t done much to her.

Well, being turned into a frog when she was thirteen might have been what had stunted her growth, but then, maybe she was just meant to be this short to begin with.

Abruptly, she flipped over so that she was lying on her back, staring up at the sky. Unless he climbed up onto the rock she was on, he wouldn’t be able to see her. She’d hear him if he tried, and she’d go find somewhere else to think if he did.

“Herald.” His voice sounded strained, like he was trying quite hard not to lose his patience. She stretched out her legs, crossing them at her ankles, hands beneath her head as she took to inspecting the clouds that formed the outer part of the Breach. Were they just being pushed back, or were they an actual manifestation of the Fade, she wondered.

Finally, there was another sigh and then the steadily softening crunch of boots in snow sounded his retreat.

She waited until she couldn’t hear those soft steps anymore before she dared to lift her head and peek to see that he was, in fact, gone. When she was sure he had left, she laid her head back down and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think.

 _Talk to Mother Giselle_ , had been Cassandra’s suggestion as they’d been coming back from the Hinterlands.

Apparently the fact that Chantry folk made her uneasy had slipped the seeker’s mind. After all, she and Commander Rutherford had gone on an adventure together, so that meant everything was well within the Inquisition. Nugs and hugs for everyone.

How was she supposed to explain what had been eating away at her when she couldn’t even accurately, or rationally, explain it to herself. People weren’t…bad, per se, but things happened.

Inevitably, those without magic turned on those with it. It wasn’t necessarily out of ill will or malice. Mostly, it was fear.

She knew this. She had come to accept it a long, long time ago. Someone could smile at you, hold you in their arms, and tell you they loved you more than anything. Then magic got involved, and it wasn’t true anymore.

People might be sincere in their appreciation of her now, but it wouldn’t last.

If she told anyone, they would tell her she was being ridiculous, and likely continue to dismiss her concerns even if she chose to list off her past experiences which pointed toward the truth of it.

She felt the mark crackle softly and slipped her hand free from behind her head. Her hair was no doubt a tangled mess, spilling around her, her braid barely resembling what it had once been.

As she inspected the glowing mark, trying not to wonder what it could be—she had a sinking feeling she knew at least a little of what it was, and that it wasn’t a gift from an absent Maker—a man’s voice pulled Finley from her thoughts.

“Herald? Ser Herald of Andraste?”

If she heard that title one more time, she would scream.

It took a moment for her to realize she didn’t recognize the voice. She did, however, recognize the way the voice had been muted slightly, by a helm. Lifting her head again, slowly, she glanced down to see a templar standing almost exactly where Commander Rutherford had been earlier. Behind him were four others, all fully equipped, two with their blades half drawn.

Though her instincts told her to run before they could surround her position and drag her down, she stopped herself. The templars here were supposed to be playing nice, after all. She would be fine so long as she had the mark, and there were rifts to be sealed. Never-the-less, she sat up slowly, inspecting them with care.

The one nearest her reached up and removed his helmet, tucking it under an arm and bowing quickly, revealing oddly familiar braids. “Ser Jensen, your Worship.”

Biting back the urge to say something scathing to discourage any friendliness, she paused, realizing that, while the man _was_ familiar, he wasn’t from Haven. She remembered his face from when he had glanced over his shoulder, after blocking the spell meant for her.

He was from the Hinterlands.

That meant…

That meant these were not the templars who had sworn not to harm her.

She shifted her position slowly to face them, though she didn’t come down from her perch. She wasn’t about to hand herself over to templars who were clearly half ready to pounce. If they wanted her, the least they could do was climb some rocks.

“You were at the Crossroads.”

He nodded, a nervous smile flickering across his face. She made no attempt to hide her suspicions, eyeing him openly as she drummed her fingers against her ankles. Her gaze flickered over the others now. They clearly weren’t the men who had fallen during the fighting, but this meant they _were_ some of the templars causing trouble.

Some of the ones dedicated to ridding Thedas of apostates.

She’d had to tell Commander Rutherford off, hadn’t she?

She could use a living shield about now.

However, she could neither turn back time, nor scream loud enough to get his attention. He wouldn’t make it to her side in time, anyway.

She almost scoffed at the thought of relying on someone else to save her. How many times had she outrun templars and worse in the past? She didn’t _need_ a living shield.

And they seemed poorly equipped for the snow and ice. All she’d have to do is start across the lake and at least two of them would be down for the count. That might give enough time for people across the road to notice, distract, and give Finley time to get out of reach.

The templars were watching her. Ser Jensen seemed worried…that look in his eyes, though. It wasn’t the sort of look she was used to. No vengeance, frustration, anger. Instead, it was something almost foreign.

Disappointment?

She abruptly tilted her head, motioning toward Ser Jensen and pretending the others weren’t there. “What may I do for you, Ser Jensen?”

He fidgeted before looking over his shoulder and motioning up to Finley. “I told you it was her…”

“A mage,” spat one of the ones ready to attack.

There was such vitriol in the woman’s voice. Such rage. That was something Finley was more accustomed to. That was something she knew how to deal with.

It was oddly comforting.

“Not just a mage. The Herald of Andraste, if you believe the rumors,” Finley waved her hand for dramatic effect.

The five templars simply stared up at her, completely and utterly silent.

Time passed.

They didn’t move.

She listened for sounds of others sneaking around behind her—it wouldn’t be the first time templars had tried to distract her and trap her in, though it would be the first time that so many had stood as a distraction—but the world was eerily quiet. Even the wind was still.

Were they even breathing? A small puff of air escaped Ser Jensen’s lips. At least he hadn’t died on his feet.

Finally, she just crossed her legs and leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hands, her elbows braced against her knees. “If there’s to be any smiting, could we get on with it?”

“Are you well?” Ser Jensen asked. One of his hands came to rest near the top of the rock she was sitting on. If he lunged with enough force, he could pull himself up onto her ledge in a matter of seconds.

She didn’t bother trying to scoot out of immediate reach. Even if he did try to reach her, she could get out of range before he could get up to her. “I suppose that would depend on why you’ve come?”

He looked back at the others again, pausing when he saw the two ready to attack. His posture went rigid, and one of them turned away, shoving his sword back into place. The other grumbled something Finley couldn’t make out through her helmet, and then drew her sword, stuck it into the ground in front of her, and crossed her arms.

However, it was one of the last two who stepped forward. His armor was slightly different, a sign of rank, perhaps? It also didn’t seem to bear the same amount of wear as most of the others—he and the last of the templars looked like they hadn’t been out in the woods baying at the moon like their counterparts. He removed his helmet as well and made a swift bow. “I am Ser Yorric Trevelyan, and we’ve come to join the Inquisition, if you would have us.”

His skin was a bit darker than Ser Jensen’s but she could see a distinct similarity between the two, in the shape of their eyes and ears. Unlike Ser Jensen, Ser Yorric’s dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail at the nape of his neck, with a few strands falling loose around his face.

When Finley didn’t reply right away, he motioned toward Ser Jensen. “When my brother didn’t return to Val Royeaux, I came looking for him, to make sure he wouldn’t do anything foolish. He was easy to find, but not so easy to reason with. It wasn’t until his encounter with you, however, that he’d listen to me. I owe you a great deal.”

Finley inspected him, tilting her head carefully to the other side. “You wish to leave behind your great mission to hunt all the terrible apostates and assist in closing that?” She pointed over her shoulder toward the Breach.

Their gazes followed, and another terse silence ensued. It was short, though. Ser Yorric appraised her a moment longer. “It was never my mission, though I can see how you might be wary of Jensen and his…friends.” The other two in the more worn armor—the two who had been ready to attack—both seemed to flinch at his words. “But I assure you, we mean—” 

“Herald!”

Seeker Pentaghast’s angry voice interrupted whatever he was about to say, and the templars all turned to see the seeker storming across the snowy road to where Finley had taken refuge. The tent city roamed out to the sides along the road, but they’d somehow managed to keep everything to the south of the road nearest Haven so far.

As the seeker drew closer, she noticed the templars, and her face shifted from anger to caution. She rested her hand on her blade as she carefully came to stand as close to Finley as she could, though Ser Jensen was still between them, at the edge of the rock she was still seated upon. “What is going on here?”

Ser Jensen looked back at Ser Yorric again, anxious.

“You…you were in the Hinterlands.” Seeker Pentaghast’s sword was in her hand in a breath.

The female templar jerked her own sword from the snow, though the rest of them made no move.

“They have come to join the Inquisition,” Finley offered, chin still cupped, fingers drumming against her cheeks.

While Seeker Pentaghast’s brow lowered at her comments, and she made a disgusted noise at her flippant behavior, she did turn to inspect the templars more carefully, lowering her sword. She paused, inspecting Ser Jensen. “You were one of the templars we encountered.”

“Yes, ser.” He paused and then looked back at Finley. “I wouldn’t be alive if not for you. The others…I know you tried to save them.”

Finley stared back at him. Had she accidentally shielded more than just the first two? Had she shielded him during the fighting? Was that why he’d lived? Why he’d protected her? Had he been returning the favor? Evening a score?

There didn’t seem a good way to ask without revealing that his continued breathing hadn’t been her intention.

He shifted his weight a little, that awkward silence settling back.

Was she supposed to say something to that? Confirm it? Apologize for failing his friends?

“We are sorry for what happened to them,” Seeker Pentaghast murmured at length, trying to sound polite instead of aggressive. “If everyone had been willing to listen, perhaps we could have gotten more accomplished.”

The female templar hissed something, but one of the men beside her put a hand on her shoulder, and she quieted down.

Seeker Pentaghast sheathed her blade. As she inspected them, she cracked her knuckles slowly. “While we do welcome anyone, it is with the understanding that past slights can be forgiven, if not forgotten. You would be working with mages, here.”

“We gathered as much,” Ser Yorric motioned toward Finley. When Seeker Pentaghast glanced up at her, Finley simply arched her eyebrows. “Ser Jensen mentioned that the Herald was a mage, and that she traveled with another. Where there are two mages there are bound to be more. Regardless, we would serve.”

“We need men and women who can follow orders,” the seeker snapped, seeming to bristle at the lightness to Ser Yorric’s voice. “That you continued to howl at the moon while your betters tried to fix things is appalling.”

“The only orders I broke were the ones telling me to stay in Val Royeaux and to leave my brother to get himself killed,” Ser Yorric clarified. “You may fault me for looking after family if you like, but Jensen is in line now, and willing to work for a righteous cause, if you will allow it.”

“You may feel your actions justified, but it does not change the fact that you abandoned your post. Every one of you has been insubordinate, for some reason.”

Ser Jensen just stood quietly where he was, taking the admonishment like a child might, one who knew there would be no place for them here.

Finley watched him, head tilted.

Like her, he’d been uprooted, taken from where he belonged and tossed into an uncaring world. Perhaps it was foolish to consider him a kindred spirit—he was a templar, after all—but there was something she couldn’t shake.

She thought of the mage she’d killed.

“The Herald of Andraste forgives you and accepts you into the Inquisition.” It took a moment and the stares from all six of the plate-wearing warriors around her before Finley realized she’d actually spoken. She blinked down at them a few times before straightening out of her slouch, frowning as she focused on Seeker Pentaghast. “What? I was under the impression that as Herald—”

“Now is not the time—”

“—I was supposed to go out and recruit people, accept them and all that.” When Seeker Pentaghast didn’t offer an immediate response, she looked back at the templars. They were out of their element, without a direction.

She hadn’t even realized that it was harder for her to breathe until she felt it easing up, even with that prickling sensation of them watching her.

“You will be watched,” Seeker Pentaghast was speaking to Ser Yorric, seemingly giving up on arguing with Finley for the time being. She didn’t doubt she’d hear more of it later. “If you can show that you can move beyond your past prejudices and follow orders, then you will be welcome here. If not, you will have to leave, one way or another.”

Ser Jensen’s smile was radiant as he nodded, paused to make sure Ser Yorric was going to accept the terms, and then nodded again. The other templars seemed relieved as well. Seeker Pentaghast motioned for them to follow her, heading toward the sea of tents to take them to Commander Rutherford, no doubt. She paused when they were at the edge of the road, “Herald, I would speak with you in the Chantry, as soon as I am done with our new recruits.”

Finley understood that it was an order rather than a request.

Still, she waited until they had a decent head start before sliding down from her perch and dusting the snow from her overcoat and hair.

This whole mess was drudging up too many memories, opening wounds she’d thought long closed and scarred shut, if not mended.

This little adventure was not going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads <3


	10. Reining in the Herald

Cassandra strode into the Chantry, gaze sweeping the main hall. The few people who were present gave her respectful nods or scurried out of view, seeking reprieve from her critical eye. Her already present frown dipped deeper when she couldn’t find the flare of orange hair that she was looking for. She paced slowly into the building, searching both sides of the hall, the candles casting eerie shadows across the floors and walls.

She had been very clear about meeting in the Chantry.

The Herald was proving to be too paranoid and unwilling to cooperate. Perhaps it was trauma from what had happened at the Conclave, but they couldn’t afford to have her acting thus. She needed to be a pillar.

They should have stemmed the rumors before they could reach so far.

Cassandra didn’t want to bring her to Val Royeaux and have her treating the Revered Mothers like she thought they were each going to put a knife in her back. That would go over beautifully. And worse, if they said something that made her feel cornered, she’d likely start some winding ramble admonishing the Chantry, and then they’d be damned regardless.

As Cassandra reached the back of the room, she paused, stepping up to Josephine’s door and knocking lightly on the frame. The ambassador looked up from her work, a pleasant smile on her lips. With a nod of acknowledgement, she motioned for Cassandra to step inside before going back to her writing.

“All is well, I hope?”

“I was wondering if you’ve seen the Herald. I needed to speak with her.”

“Ah,” Josephine replied, her smile tugging upward a bit. She dotted something on the page and then rested her elbows on her desk, fingers laced together, quill sticking up from them. Leaning her chin on top of her hands, she met Cassandra’s annoyed look with an amused one. “You just missed her, actually.”

“She came to see you?”

“With a warning,” Josephine arched her eyebrows. Then she donned a serious look, trying to keep her mouth a straight line, though that twinkle in her eyes kept towing up the corners of her lips. “’If I go missing, the seeker did it,’ was her message.”

A disgusted noise caught in Cassandra’s throat as she threw her hands up in front of her. “Of course she said that.”

“I believe she headed to the war room,” Josephine offered, straightening up and returning to her work. “I have to say I was surprised, but when she left, I heard that door.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra murmured, offering a short bob of her head before turning and heading for the war room. They needed to keep that locked better. It wouldn’t do to have enemies sneaking in and finding out their plans. Not that many had deemed them important enough to warrant sneaking in in the first place.

When she entered, she wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been to find the Herald where Cullen usually stood, one arm crossed in front of her, propping up her other elbow, her other hand drumming her fingers lightly against her chin. For just a moment, she looked like someone invested in what was happening, like someone who belonged there with the rest of them.

Cassandra could almost see her looking over war reports with the others, tapping the paper, offering insight.

As soon as the Herald looked up, Cassandra drew herself from her thoughts. If that vision was to be, it was a long ways off, especially with Cullen currently scowling at the mere mention of their dear Herald. “Should I take this, and the recent recruitments, to mean that you have decided to join us officially?”

“I wasn’t aware I hadn’t,” she replied, her expression making it hard to tell if she was being sarcastic or earnest. She plucked one of the reports from the edge of the table, tapping her fingers against the paper as she skimmed it.

“You’ve certainly made a mire of your interests,” Cassandra commented. She scanned the table, wondering if all the place markers were where they were supposed to be. “Why did you decide to recruit them, if I may ask?”

“Why shouldn’t we have done so?”

“The templars who would be reliable allies have already drawn out of the warzones under the commands of their higher ranking members, rather than hunting and slaying terrified mages.”

The Herald didn’t respond to that. Her nose twitched as she leaned closer, letting herself be engrossed in whatever the report said. Or was she just pretending to be interested to let their current topic die?

“They will be watched, but it is good to see you reaching out.”

“Have I done the Inquisition proud?”

Twisting her mouth to the side, Cassandra scoffed when the Herald’s gaze flitted toward her, a spark of something in her eyes. It was gone too quickly for her to see what. “That remains to be seen,” Cassandra finally said. “However, I am surprised you would be so open to recruiting more templars, when you already dance around the ones we have as though their mere presence were a curse.”

“You’ve a plan to yell at me about my treatment of our dear commander, haven’t you?”

“I will get to that, yes,” Cassandra crossed her arms. “Josephine seems to think you to be some poor, terrified damsel to be handled with care, and she’s convinced Leliana to be careful around you as well. It has made addressing some of the issues arising a bit…daunting.”

The Herald paused, lowering the report and meeting Cassandra’s gaze solemnly. “And what do you think?”

“I think you are stronger than they realize, than perhaps you realize.” Cassandra motioned toward her and began to pace around the table slowly. “What happened to you at the Conclave must have been terrible, but you survived. More, you survived in the Wilds for years, decades even. I assume you were out there during the Blight?” The Herald’s gaze had left her, instead staring off into the void, memories of something filling her senses, leaving her lost to the present.

Cassandra had noticed this happen more than once, and she reached out and put her hand on the Herald’s shoulder, shaking her from whatever it was that haunted her. When the Herald blinked past the disorientation of coming back to the present, Cassandra nodded to her. “One does not live as you do without developing a certain resilience.”

The Herald looked everywhere except at Cassandra, gaze finally settling on the report in her hand. They stood there a moment before she finally let out a sigh. “What terrible atrocities have I committed then?”

“Nothing so dire,” Cassandra said, the corner of her mouth quirking up in time with one of her perfect eyebrows. “However, you must be seen as in agreement with us. It is not just you,” she added, when the Herald’s shoulders slumped. “If Cullen were to begin snapping at all of our ideas and dismissing our opinions, it would look bad. If Josephine or Leliana or I did so, it would look bad. I realize that you did not come to this willingly, as we have, but that mark…”

“You don’t have to give me the full lecture,” she interrupted quietly. She held up her hand, staring at her palm. The mark was mostly dormant, only a faint green hue glimmering in its outline. Every now and then, the glimmer faded just so, making it look like it wasn’t there at all. The Herald put her report down and traced the mark slowly. “I won’t just leave the sky torn, Seeker. Too much would be hurt.” She let her right hand fall to her side and slowly closed her other. “I just…I don’t see why I need to be important, why _I_ need to be the one people see, that they flock to.” She motioned to Cassandra. “I’d feel better if you were the face of the Inquisition, honestly.”

“I think Josephine would cry if I was,” Cassandra gave her a dry laugh. “I am not exactly patient with the nobility. Or anyone, for that.” She held up a hand before the Herald could start throwing out other names. “Leliana needs to be in the shadows for her to do her job efficiently. Cullen cannot run an army and court popular opinion, even if he does seem to find more hours to do things than there actually are in a day.”

“What about Josephine, though? She understands people. She can calm just about anyone. And she’s quite charming.” She nodded, as though the action would help cement the idea in Cassandra’s head. “She would make an excellent face for the Inquisition.”

“Word has already spread too far that _you_ are the Herald of Andraste,” Cassandra said, frown in place. Like Cullen, she’d wished that they not allow such rumors to reach so far, though she’d had to admit the potential in their sway after seeing the outcome of so brief a visit to the Crossroads. “Too many people have seen you, Herald. Too many people know of you. For you not to speak with at least some of our allies, and speak on behalf of the Inquisition would either make you appear a fraud, or imply that the Inquisition was not actually favored by the Maker’s chosen. Either way would cause us greater problems when trying to recruit help.” 

“I truly have no choice in this, do I?” she leaned against the table, some of her loose hair falling over her shoulders. It was short enough around her face, coming down to her jaw at an angle, that it blocked her face from view as she leaned forward. “I don’t mind the part where I help; I really don’t. I want to close the rifts.” She swayed toward the table and back a few times. “I don’t want to deal with people, though. I don’t want to be ‘the Herald’. I don’t want to be some religious symbol.”

She grew quiet for a moment, and Cassandra sighed. Even as she tried to think of a way to explain that being a symbol need not feel like such a burden, she stopped herself. As someone who had never been such a thing, how could she truly say? How could she ask this apostate to take on such a burden when she herself would never need to?

And what if this woman _hadn’t_ been chosen by divine providence? What if she really was just a poor soul whose blind luck had helped her, only to throw her into a world so foreign to her that it was debatable whether she’d truly been saved?

She straightened up, placing her hands on her back and arching it. When she was done stretching, she looked at Cassandra. Beneath her eyeliner, dark circles added to the shadows around her eyes, making her look so worn. “I don’t like all this attention.”

“If I could promise you that there was a way to let you do your work in quiet peace, I would,” Cassandra sighed. She cracked her knuckles slowly. “I cannot. Since you stepped out of that rift, the world’s eyes have turned to you, and as you close the rifts, as the Inquisition becomes stronger, it will only get worse.”

The Herald—Finley frowned. Cassandra had suspected that being a Wilds’ apostate had meant Finley was more of a hermit, but she hadn’t known how to breach such a subject. She wasn’t someone people came to for support. She was good with a blade. Beyond that… Cassandra felt like she was throwing words at her, hoping that a few would stick or mean something more or somehow carry a weight that she couldn’t put to them.

“You should talk to Mother Giselle,” Cassandra suggested. When she merely made a face, Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Faith is…powerful. People have decided you must be a sign of faith, hope in this frightening turn of events. They _need_ to see _you_. Seeing the one who came out of a rift march out to deal with them… that is… inspiring.”

“And when I don’t live up to those expectations?” She shifted her weight. “When I’m too wary or don’t curtsey properly or use the wrong utensil or…” Finley trailed off with a defeated slump of her shoulders. “What happens when they decide I’ve been tricking them all this time?”

“That will not happen.” When Finley simply slouched forward onto the table, Cassandra patted her shoulder. “I will help you. We all will. You need not do this alone.” Cassandra waited until Finley straightened up, resigned to her fate. She crossed her arms. “And that brings us to Cullen.”


	11. A Fresh Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to creepypasta-queen- on tumblr for beta reading!

“So…is there anything here I should…know?” Finley almost couldn’t finish her sentence when she saw the look Commander Rutherford was giving her. He clearly didn’t understand what was going on or why she was there asking him about…anything.

After the way she’d acted, she couldn’t truly hold him at fault. He’d been kind, protected her from demons, and offered to help her in every possible way he could think while they were retrieving her belongings. He’d even offered to try to mend things, when he hadn’t done anything wrong.

And she’d been a bitch.

Granted, he was bound to stab her in the back—either physically or metaphorically—at some point, but it had occurred to her that that wouldn’t be for a good, long while.

In the meantime, she could surely be friendly in the interim. The key was not to get too attached, but at the same time, not to act too much like a, well…

Frost queen, Varric had called her. She’d threatened to frost his queen, if he chose that as her nickname. He’d just laughed it off.

Truly, the only down side to being the gentle healer was that it did make any threats of turning people into newts or scorching eyebrows off rather hollow.

One of the templars—one of Commander Rutherford’s, not one of ‘her’ five—had even patted her on the head the yesterday. She’d wanted to shoot him with an arrow to remind him that she could still be dangerous, but one condescending templar was hardly worth ruining her cover.

And with her aim, she’d probably hit whoever was standing next to him, anyway.

At this point, her attempt to convince people that she was incapable of offensive magic was going rather smoothly. So long as she could remember not to use any vines to restrict an attacker or the like, she would be fine. And she might be sealing the lie soon, with the impending Val Royeaux trip just days away. If anything happened at the capital, a lack of fire or ice in a fight would likely be noted by a great many people. The city was supposed to be ‘very big’, according to Josephine.

She could hardly imagine a place with more people than Haven.

After her talk with Cassandra, she’d had time to think. Well, a night to do so. A night in which the infirmary had been rather slow, leaving her even more time to think than usual, mostly about ideas that had been slowly working themselves into her head for some time.

She’d already figured out that so long as she had the mark and there were rifts in the world, she would be safe from anyone randomly deciding she wasn’t important. However, as she’d looked over the war table and inspected the different reports, it had finally sunk in just how _many_ rifts there were. While on the one hand, she wouldn’t be going home any time soon, on the other, they were going to need her for…months, if not longer.

Further, if they did turn against her early, they’d toss her into a dungeon before they’d kill her—had to keep that mark handy—and that would give her time to plan an escape when the tides started turning against her.

That meant that she could relax. She could play nice. It was a bit hard, with a little over twenty years of being wary of templars behind her, but she’d decided to commit to her decision.

That was a lie. It was _much_ harder to do than to say, as most things were, but she’d managed not to go out of her way to avoid the templars present all morning, and that meant that when they were around, she was in reach. Her heart still fluttered a little when she felt them watching her, but it wasn’t…as bad as it could have been. It was hard not to duck out of reach, but…she was managing.

Varric said she made faces at the templars, still. He said he liked to follow her to see their reactions.

She was tempted to put some itching powder in his sleeping roll.

With the stories he told, though, she wasn’t sure she could handle a prank war, especially not when she’d decided to be respectable.

“Herald…” Commander Rutherford’s voice interrupted her thoughts before they could spiral too far into the possibilities of what the dwarf might be capable of, and she blinked, refocusing her gaze on him, unintentionally looking somewhat akin to a small creature trapped in a corner. His brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Finley coughed. She felt like an idiot. While she didn’t want to have to explain things to the commander, after Cassandra’s talk, she couldn’t very well just keep on as she had been. Playing nice would require that she make amends with the dear commander, even if the task did seem more daunting than she’d originally expected. His guard was certainly up as he eyed her, a report in one hand and a scout standing beside him, glancing from one of them to the other, clearly not sure what was going on, either.

That made all of them, then.

She fought the urge to scurry off under his scrutiny and shrugged, crossing her arms and then motioning toward him. “So…was there anything I should know?”

“Not at present,” Commander Rutherford handed the report back to the scout, and with a nod, the man was off, though he did pause once to glance back at them before committing to his task. The commander crossed his arms as he looked at Finley, his expression one that said he would rather get back to anything else. When she didn’t head off, he hesitated and then frowned. “Was there anything else?”

“Well, honestly…” Finley glanced down toward her feet. Fixing this was going to require an explanation, wasn’t it? One for why she’d turned so cold at the end of their little adventure. And why she’d been so horrible later. The thought of vocalizing such things was not overly appealing. 

Maybe it wasn’t too late to just turn him into a toad and run for the tree-line.

“You there!” The commander’s attention had wandered when she hadn’t forced the conversation on. He strode past her to one of the various recruits as they practiced. His brow was low, his face angrier than it should have been, likely because she was there. “There’s a shield in your hand, block with it! If this man were your enemy, you’d be dead.” He turned to another man in armor standing near them. The one who’d patted Finley on the head. “Lieutenant, don’t hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one.”

“Yes, commander.”

Even as the recruit nodded and settled back into his stance, ready to resume sparring, Finley took a few quick steps toward him and leaned forward, whispering, “It’s okay. I would have healed you.”

The man blinked, surprised. Then he gave her an awkward yet appreciative smile and threw himself back into his training.

When she moved back to the middle of the aisle between the practicing combatants, she looked back at Commander Rutherford to see a frown etched deeply into his face. Brow drawn even further down, somehow, his fingers thudded against the side of his hilt. She’d seen that look the time they’d been in the war room together, when he’d been trying to come up with a decent tactic for dealing with one of their many, many problems.

Her endeavors were proving to be for naught.

His lieutenant had the flicker of a grin on his face, but he turned away to hide it when Commander Rutherford followed her gaze to see what had caught her attention. His subordinate strolled down the row to inspect the other recruits, offering a few tips and reprimands as he oversaw their training.

Commander Rutherford took a few slow steps toward her, making sure she didn’t dart backwards, so that he could speak without raising his voice loud enough to be heard by anyone else over the constant clang of metal on metal. It was hard for her not to slide back a step or two from him as he advanced, but she kept her ground, instead considering how irate Cassandra might be if she heard that the Herald had run screaming from the commander. Because if she _did_ run, she _would_ scream, if only for effect.

Besides, they all needed to be seen in agreement, didn’t they? That had been one of Cassandra’s main points.

“I am trying to train these soldiers to be able to take care of themselves in battle. Do not undermine my work with some promise of magical coddling.”

Finley put her hands on her hips, trying to keep her back straight as she looked up at him. He was almost a foot taller than she was, and those few inches did give him a rather powerful look. Perhaps it was just because she had to tilt her head back. She glanced over the different fighters and did her best to avoid meeting that angry glare. It was easy enough. There was so much to look at around the training grounds that she’d never noticed before, like weapons’ racks, and buckets with water and washcloths—to help the men and women cool down after practicing perhaps? Or were they there to tend to any wounds received from a mis-angled blade or overly ambitious shield slam? Perhaps both.

“I _would_ have healed him,” she retorted.

She would have if he was an injured animal, anyway. Spiders, wyverns, tuskets, more recently humans, elves, and dwarves… She had healed the latter set prior to the Conclave as well, though then she typically stayed out of sight with the bipedal races or made sure that they were unconscious before getting too close. After all, her spells took substantially less mana if she was in close proximity, and took less time to cast if she wasn’t dodging sharp things.

“Are you going to somehow be present at every battle, able to heal every man and woman under the Inquisition’s banner? At all times?”

Finley looked back at him, surprised. “I…no.”

The commander rolled his shoulders one at a time, trying to shake the tension from them. He was still angry. “Then they need to be capable of defending themselves.”

Finley dug her nails into the leather of her overcoat before forcing herself to relax. “A valid point, but that thrust wouldn’t have hit anything vital. For that to have killed him, it would have taken hours to bleed out. Any skilled healer, magic or no, can making a compression…unless there’s a dragon sitting on him to keep them at bay.” She paused, considering it. “And honestly, at that point, he’d have more pressing issues than a stab wound.”

A low, disbelieving cluck of a laugh caught her attention, and she glanced to the side to see that more than a few of the recruits had paused in their practice to watch her talk to their commander. The sounds of swordplay had died out almost completely. One of them half lifted her shield when she saw her superior glance her way, but quickly gave up the pitiful rouse to concentrate on hiding her smile. Though her lips managed to keep a straight line, there was a sparkle in her eyes that she couldn’t quite squelch.

“Herald, while I appreciate the perspective, you know very little of battle. Fighting can last hours. Being routed or forced to retreat from an enemy advance can make it impossible to gather our injured.”

“Well, that sounds like we need more healers,” Finley muttered.

The commander took in a long, deep breath, held it, and then let it out. He motioned to her. “Yes, well. Unless you’ve got some friends who’d care to join the cause,” she tried not to look terrified that he’d even considered such a notion as he spoke, “the best way for these soldiers to stay alive is to _avoid_ injury, rather than depending on someone else to mend them.” He turned his gaze to the nearest recruits, his expression measured, oblivious to the way Finley froze for just a second as he suggested she might have friends living out in society’s fringes. “So as I’ve said before. _Practice_ is important.”

“Yes, ser!”

The clashing of swords and shields resumed almost instantly, a cacophony to drown out the words the commander had directed at Finley after regaining control of his people. Commander Rutherford uncrossed his arms, letting one hand go to rest on the pommel of his blade while the other fell to his side. His expression was unreadable. He stepped closer to her still, pausing only briefly when she flinched at the proximity.

She hadn’t meant to, and hoped none of the recruits had seen.

“Why are you here?”

The words were a low growl.

Finley stood there, at a loss for words. This was going to be so much harder than she’d anticipated. Even as he let out an exasperated sigh and started to turn away, she reached out and caught his arm. That took both of them by surprise.

She held on to him for another moment before nodding to the side. “Walk with me?”

As her hand fell to her side, he appraised her and then turned sharply, beginning a slow pace in the direction she’d indicated.

It only took a few minutes for them to reach the tents, arranged in neat rows, with a decent space for walking in between. Most of them were empty, the men and women busy with their daily routines.

“I wanted to apologize. I was rude.”

An indignant laugh rung sharply in her ears. She tried not to glare as she glanced over at him. His look of contempt made her gaze wander over the tents they passed. None of them were particularly interesting.

“It’s been…I’ve…” She drew her hair over her shoulder, pulling loose the ribbon, winding it around her wrist a few times, and then beginning to undo the braid so that she could make it a little neater. “A lot has happened these last…four weeks.” Had it really only been a month since the Conclave had been destroyed? “And I…have taken my frustrations out on people who did not deserve it.” She paused, forcing herself to turn back to meet that unnerving gaze. His expression had lightened considerably. “Yourself included. I’m sorry.”

They both slowed to a stop at the same time, standing amidst the sea of tarps. Commander Rutherford stared down at his toes, tapping his fingers against his hilt again. “A lot _has_ happened, hasn’t it?”

“With more to come,” Finley sighed. She finished re-braiding her hair and tied it off. “I will… _try_ to remember that I’m not the only one things are happening to.”

He looked up at her, catching her gaze and holding it a breath before motioning toward her with his free hand. “I would like to know what I did to upset you before…” He paused before adding, “No sense in me stepping on your toes the same way twice.”

“That,” Finley replied, instantly feeling her throat tighten. Memories threatened to bubble up and sweep her back into another life, but she held his gaze, an anchor keeping her from sinking into her own thoughts. With a cough, she shook her head when she was sure she wouldn’t be lost to her past. “You were too kind.” She tossed her braid over her shoulder, taking comfort in the way it swung back and forth against her back before settling into place. “It…” She couldn’t say what it reminded her of. “It just felt out of place, with demons everywhere and everything falling apart. It felt like it had to be a lie or a twist or…I don’t know.”

Commander Rutherford rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze on the tents around them, away from her. “Well, I’ve _never_ been accused of being too kind before.”

“Oh? Truly?”

He laughed a little awkwardly. “Truly.”

Her brow knit together. “You’re so nice, though.”

“That is… I, uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck again, voice cracking slightly as he floundered. “If I had to guess your feelings toward me, it would never have been that you considered me kind.” He finally glanced back at her, offering her a weak, uncertain smile, like he expected her to take back what she’d just said.

Or for _her_ words to be the trap.

That would be quite the twist, wouldn’t it?

She held her hand out to him when she saw his smile lingered. “Perhaps we could…do that thing where you pretend the unfortunate things haven’t happened?”

“A fresh start?”

“Yes, that,” she nodded, glancing down at her hand and then at him again. “I can’t promise that I won’t make your life a bit difficult from time to time, but I’ll do my best not to, as we are working together in this.”

He took her hand and bowed toward her. “I doubt I’d know what to do if you were suddenly always agreeable.” She felt a soft warmth stir in her chest. It made her forget, albeit briefly, that the point of this was to _act_ friendly, not _be_ it. When he met her gaze, he paused, holding her hand a second too long. He let go of her, straightening up, his attention wandering back toward his recruits. “A fresh start, then.”

They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Was she supposed to say something else? She’d already asked if there was anything she should know, and unless he was lying, there wasn’t any news on that front. Finally, Commander Rutherford motioned toward her. “I should get—”

“I’m sure you have work to get back to,” Finley started at the same time, picking at one of the smaller holes in her shirt sleeve. “After all, if you take more than a five-minute break, the Inquisition will fall to pieces.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, Josephine, Seeker Pentaghast, and Sister Nightingale, as well. If any one of you stops to breathe, I think everything will just…” She made a swooshing motion as though something were falling over.

He laughed, turning back toward the training grounds and then looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Are you…heading back this way as well?”

Finley paused, realizing she would need to. She hadn’t thought this through. It meant time to talk, and she had nothing to say. Though, honestly, he was probably somewhat relieved with that. She turned with him, matching his stride. There was a brief silence between the two, with the sound of the wind rustling the tents around them and the crunch of their boots the only noises. They’d walked further than Finley had realized. It was taking forever to get back.

Commander Rutherford abruptly began to talk about the different matters he was overseeing, recruitment and the like. Anything to fill the silence, she supposed. His voice was a pleasant drum, and she had to look out over the tents when she realized that she didn’t dislike listening to it. That little ball of warmth in her chest fluttered.

When she realized that she hadn’t really heard the last few things he’d said, she snapped her attention back toward him, not wanting to seem like she was brushing him off so soon. He noticed and instantly tripped over his own sentence.

With an awkward smile, he laughed. “Forgive me. You didn’t come here for a lecture.”

Finley shrugged a little, the wind tugging at her hair and clothes. She could see the soldiers running through their regimen ahead, slowly becoming clearer. She could hear the sound of shields and swords clashing. “No, but if you have one prepared, I’d love to hear it.”

Her words caught him off guard. He cleared his throat, glancing around at nothing in particular. “Another time perhaps,” he paused and added, “What with the whole five-minute limit, I doubt we’d have time, anyway.”

She shook her head. For the first time in ages, she almost felt like smiling.

He was watching her from the corner of his eye again, and he looked away when she glanced toward him. “I, uh,” he coughed. “There’s still a lot of work ahead.”

As if on cue, a scout darted up to them, report in hand. He looked like he’d been running about for a few minutes, searching for the commander. “Commander, Ser Ryan has a report about the supply lines.”

It was as if the arrival of more work had given him the purpose he’d needed to regain his composure. He offered Finley a half smile that tugged at the scar on his upper lip. “As I was saying…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you're enjoying the story thus far.


	12. Madam de Fer

First Enchanter Vivienne, Madam de Fer, finished applying her eyeshadow and leaned back from her small looking glass, inspecting her reflection carefully. Her makeup was elegantly done, accenting her eyes, lips, and cheekbones perfectly, her skin was beautifully smooth, with just a hint of wrinkles around her eyes, lines formed from years of well-placed smiles. Her eyebrows were delicate, but not too much so. As she turned her head to let the light catch her at a few different angles, she had to smile. Whereas she would need to look flawless at any time, tonight was particularly important.

Tonight, the Herald of Andraste was to be stopping by her salon.

The invitation had been accepted, as she knew it would, earlier in the day. She’d offered the Herald and her entourage a place to stay in the city before they began their journey back to Haven. The maids had prepared several rooms, the linens freshly washed for the beds and smelling of lavender. Not a mote of dust would be found in any of the rooms, not a fleck of dirt.

The stable boys had been told to expect them as well, to make sure that every generosity was extended to the beasts of the Inquisition. It would not do to have their mounts treated any less than their people. The way people treated animals was often a telling sign, and all of her signs were going to tell wondrous stories.

Makeup finished and perfect, Lady Vivienne carefully donned her dragon-esque hat, her finger tips holding it just so, so that her manicured nails wouldn’t pinch into the fabric. She twisted it a little one way and then the other, until it, too, was perfectly in place. Her mask came next.

Many of the people in Val Royeaux had been whispering—when they weren’t outright gossiping—about the rising power in the Inquisition. Thus far, it hadn’t done too terribly much—it _had_ halted the rift in the sky’s growth, which was no small feat—and to Lady Vivienne that meant it would be an opportune time to join.

Over the years, she had developed an eye for projects and causes that could be worthwhile _and_ successful, with the proper guidance. Her guidance.

Great things were in line for the Inquisition, and she would be there, from as close to the beginning as she could manage.  Besides, it was only proper that the leader of the loyal mages of Thedas be a part of mending their broken world, particularly when it was their rebellious brethren who had obviously damaged it to begin with. It would be immeasurably more productive for mages everywhere if people saw them as helpers rather than the raving fools running about the countryside, smiting everyone who crossed their paths under the assumption that the poor soul might have shook hands with a templar once.

She would represent her Circle, the mages who stood proud with tradition. She would show Thedas that mages _could_ be trusted.

A knock came at her door.

“Yes? Speak quickly.”

“Madam, the Herald of Andraste has arrived,” a servant announced, bowing in the doorway. When he straightened up, she gave him a gracious smile and dismissed him with a slight wave of her hand. He hurried off.

She paused once to look over her reflection in a full length mirror near the door. Her current ensemble was light, with gems, lace, and glittering thread decorating a pale fabric, easily accentuating her dark skin. Tugging a sleeve into place, she gave herself a well-meaning smile that would easily win over anyone unfamiliar with the Game—and more than a few who were—and stepped out into the hall, swinging her door shut in a fluid movement. Her hips swung slightly as she stepped down the hall in her heels, each movement graceful and precise, giving her the exact presence that she wanted to show to this Herald of Andraste.

Powerful, controlled, confident.

She would not mess this up, not with years of training and practice behind her. After all, she’d learned a long time ago how a single misstep could leave one’s ambitions unfulfilled.

Such would not happen to the Madam de Fer.

When she reached the steps leading into the main lobby of her manor, her gaze easily alighted on her guest of honor.

Were she less of a woman, her smile would have a faltered.

The red-headed woman standing there had to be the Herald of Andraste. Lady Vivienne had heard of her. Brilliant orange hair that fell down her back, eyes with a touch of Fade that never left them circled by what could have been the void itself it was so dark, so many kisses from the sun on her skin that she looked speckled, even from a short distance. The stories hadn’t mentioned that she would look so…disheveled. Her clothes bore wrinkles, her hair was a mess, and she’d worn her bow and quiver into the building.

Wasn’t she supposed to be a mage, as well? It would be disappointing if that part of the story was a lie; she’d been looking forward to working with a fellow mage, even if she was rumored to have been from the Wilds, of all places.

If the stories _were_ true, perhaps this appearance was her version of being dressed up, if she was from so _remote_ a place.

That prat of a noble, the Marquis Alphonse Mont-de-Glace, had noticed her as well. He was also armed, something most inappropriate, though Lady Vivienne hardly paid him much mind. A properly timed spell could claim his fingers before he ever drew his blade. However, that was not the point of getting him here, now was it?

Madam de Fer waited a moment, appraising the situation. She wanted to see how this woman acted before introducing herself and handling the dear Marquis.

Despite the insinuations and slurs he threw at the woman, the Herald did not falter. She grew indignant at the charges, drawing herself up straight and insisting the Inquisition wished to be a force to help the people in their time of need. The Fade seemed to flicker in her eyes.

As the man continued his tirade, Lady Vivienne noticed another woman, whose armor bore the insignia of the Inquisition, pushing past the doorman and making her way into the room. She knew her by reputation only: Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.

If Lady Vivienne was to present herself as a figure with whom power could be trusted, she would need to do so before the seeker reached that fool of a Marquis. After all, it wouldn’t do to show them that she couldn’t handle upstarts in her own home.

“If you were a woman of honor, you would step outside and answer the charges.” The marquis made a move for a blade—was that one of Bastion’s swords from his collection, one of the ones on display on the wall in the sitting room?

She’d expected little from the marquis, but this was too much. It took a great deal of control to keep herself from frowning at the realization, but she managed.

After all, dealings with nobility aside, when one had magic, one could never afford to lose control.

Speaking of.

A simple frost spell fixed him in place, even as his hand gripped the hilt to draw her lover’s weapon. Lady Vivienne began a graceful descent down her stairs, making sure that her voice carried when she spoke, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. She remained poised and dignified under their gazes. “My dear marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house…to _my_ guests.” She stepped carefully past him, making sure she had a clear view of the Herald—and that the Herald got a clear view of her—before she turned on him. “You know such rudeness is…intolerable.”

The fool stuttered his way through an apology that she barely listened to, instead turning again to the Herald and giving her a kind smile. “My lady, you are the injured party. What would you have me do?”

Those brilliant eyes blinked. Once, twice. Then she shifted a little on her feet, awkwardly aware that all eyes had turned to her now. She started to glance toward the seeker, as though for help, but stopped herself, instead motioning to the man. “I think the marquis has learned the error of his ways.”

A forgiving soul, as the stories said.

Lady Vivienne released the fool, and, after a few brief introductions, invited the Herald upstairs to speak alone. While she wanted to offer her services, she also wanted to make sure Lady Vivienne could get a feel for her, without her seeker guard standing over them. She hadn’t glanced back when they left, but she’d heard a slight clink of metal boots against her marble floor and could guess it was the seeker turning to watch them go, debating whether she could invite herself along without causing a scene.

In the end, it was just the two of them.

As they walked, slowly, getting a safe distance from the rest of the party so that their talks could be private, Lady Vivienne cast a sideways glance at the Herald, inspecting her. Her clothes were not only wrinkled but dusty, too, though she could see a few smear patterns where it looked like the woman had tried to clean herself before giving up. Her boots had mud caked to them.

And she was rather short, just barely taller than most elves.

The Herald’s gaze wandered as she lightly picked at one of her sleeves. The poor hem wouldn’t be able to take much more of that. It might not have been the most expensive article of clothing, but still, it hardly deserved such abuse.

They stopped by a window, and the Herald made no attempt to even hide her almost childish wonder at the city that sprawled out before them. Her fingers drummed against the windowsill.

However, even as Lady Vivienne began to talk, she felt a whisper of magic around the red-head. She knew what she planned to say by heart and allowed her attention to divide as they exchanged pleasantries and the like.

The Herald’s magic by itself seemed weak—though Lady Vivienne recognized the feel of a concealing spell wrapped around her, something subtle enough that most templars wouldn’t notice, but other mages would be able to pick out with relative ease, _if_ they were looking.

So she was stronger than she let on. Good to know.

Beyond that spell, there were others, ones she couldn’t quite identify, mostly because they felt unfamiliar. Perhaps if she saw them written down…

Were they some type of protection spells? As she focused, she realized that there were at least a dozen of them. Was this something the Inquisition had insisted upon, in case the revered mothers were less than kind during their meetings?

Or were they something else?

There was a wildness to the Herald’s magic that she wasn’t used to feeling from her fellow Circle mages after a certain age. After years of learning theory and proper spellcraft, magic became so much more refined, so much more potent. But this woman… she had clearly never studied in a Circle, or if she had, she’d escaped when she was still very, very young. Lady Vivienne chose to bet on the former, as she doubted a small child could have outwitted templars.

It would be curious to see how their spells differed, with their upbringings so diverse. Of course, Lady Vivienne would have to be careful how she brought up such a conversation. If what she suspected was true, this was no disciplined mage, and apostates seemed to be very paranoid when it came to their secrets.

Though…she supposed it wouldn’t be too terribly different from dealing with the paranoia certain nobles suffered.

And it wasn’t as though she was up against the Empress of Orlais.

The Herald was so easy to direct in conversation; it was almost disappointing. A well placed adjective had her asking the exact question that Lady Vivienne had hoped for, allowing her to give her the very answers she needed to build up to her perfect pitch.

“The Veil had been ripped apart, and there is a hole in the sky,” she stated, just the appropriate amount of passion lacing her voice. Honestly, it didn’t matter if she allowed herself to show how much this truly meant to her; the Herald clearly wasn’t one to understand the intricate trappings of court etiquette. However, it would have been disrespectful to treat her guest as less than she would the blasted marquis who had threatened the Herald earlier, and so Lady Vivienne kept her composure, her manners. She let her words carry their own poignancy, a declaration that surely would stir the dear Herald’s kind heart. “It is now the duty of every mage to work toward sealing the Breach. And so I would join the Inquisition on the field of battle.”

The Herald had watched her come down the steps after she’d frozen that ridiculous upstart in place, had glanced at her a few times as they’d walked, but it wasn’t until she made her offer that Lady Vivienne really felt like the woman was looking at her, seeing her.

Judging her.

Holding the first enchanter’s gaze with that lick of ethereal fire dancing in her eyes, she finally nodded toward her. “I look forward to working with you, Lady Vivienne.”

Madam de Fer allowed herself a wider smile than usual as she nodded back. “Great things are beginning, my dear, I can promise you that.”


	13. People are People

Finley sat atop the Chantry roof, straddling the peak so that she wouldn’t fall off. Looking out across the way, she could see all of Haven stretching out before her, like a game board, the houses making simple, but curious shapes with the streets until they led out into the multitude of tents, ever expanding across the area near the small village.

The tents had finally made it to the far side of the road, and formed squiggly rows along the lake’s shore.

Finley was a bit disappointed that her previous quiet spot had been overrun, but she supposed it was a good sign for the Inquisition. She’d managed to only grumble about it once. Commander Rutherford had overheard her, though. While she’d expected a sigh or eye roll, instead he, surprisingly enough, mumbled something back about having suggested the newcomers camp elsewhere at first.

When she’d asked for clarification, he’d pretended he hadn’t said anything, instead launching into a list of reports—most of which were for Seeker Pentaghast as they meant nothing to Finley.

Still, it had been a curious twist, one that Finley couldn’t get out of her head.

“Nice view, yeah?”

Finley blinked, glancing to the side to see one of their newest recruits, Sera, had come onto the roof to join her. The elf gave her a simple nod, her broad smile in place as she came to a stop next to her.

“I can’t decide if it’s worth it,” Finley admitted, sighing. “It is nice, but it means people have a nice view of me, if they look up high enough.”

Sera laughed, plopping down to join her. She leaned to the side, a bit ahead of Finley so that she could loop her arms over the peak, making sure she wouldn’t fall. With her elbows hooking her in place, she slowly thudded her boots against the roof, sprawled out. One of the shingles looked ready to fall from the new abuse.

“Could always sit back a bit, I suppose. Out of sight, but still high up.”

“True,” Finley drummed her fingers slowly against the cold roof tiles, idly inspecting the dingy color. “But then no one would be able to find me if they needed me.”

Sera scoffed. Her emotions changed so quickly. Turning so that her back was to the little village, her large eyes caught Finley’s gaze as her eyebrows dipped down. Forgetting safety, she brought one hand up and pointed at the roof, tapping her finger against it hard. “Let me get this straight. You’re the mighty Herald of Andraste. But you don’t want to mix with the common people who work with you. _You_ want to be alone. But not so alone that no one can find you, since you’re oh so important?”

“I’m not much of a people person,” Finley offered, leaning forward. She crossed her arms across the peak and rested her chin on them. “I mean, I appreciate everything everyone’s doing, but I don’t know how to just be around them. Back home this would be…well, I don’t think the Avvar clans near my home even had this many people. And I really don’t live _near_ the Avvar, either.”

Val Royeaux had been a terrifying nightmare, with so, so, so many people everywhere.

Sera eyed her for a moment. “So shy, not an uptight bitch. Good,” Sera nodded, mostly to herself, considering things. She drummed her fingers against her chin, eyes turned upward, thoughtful. Finally, she slapped her hand down on the roof. “I can help you.”

“Help me?”

“Right, it’s like this.” Sera held both her hands up, fingers splayed in the air, though she quickly grabbed the peak of the roof when she started to slide down it. Finley reached out and gripped one of her arms when she lost her footing a second time as she tried to push herself back into place. She held both her hands out as Sera gave up, stood up, and sat the same way Finley was, just in front of her, so that they were facing one another. “You’ve got all these little people working their arses off to be part of something big, yeah? And they know nobody up top is probably ever gonna glance at them more than once, but still. And it’s mostly just knowing you’re doing something important. But still, when _you_ come about, pat a shoulder, think to ask how things are going, it makes ‘em feel like _they’re_ the important ones, if only for a little bit.”

Finley let her gaze wander past Sera, toward the people hurrying about below. At first, she’d been so busy considering all the ways they might try to hurt her that she hadn’t wanted to be too close. Then, once she’d decided she would be safe, she… she still didn’t know what to do around so many people. She hadn’t thought much of them beyond them being a collective crowd.

However, Sera’s words were true enough, weren’t they? They weren’t some faceless mob ready to strike Finley down. “Well, they are the important ones, really,” Finley said, still mulling it over. “Without all of them, Commander Rutherford and the others might bark the orders, but they can’t do them all on their own.”

“Exactly!” Sera’s eyes lit up as she pointed at Finley. “Lots of important people forget that without the little folk, they don’t have a pot to piss in.”

With a sigh, Finley stretched her arms up over her head, cracking her shoulders before letting them drop back down. “I kept asking to be one of the little people, but apparently getting spit out of the Fade means you don’t get to stay in the background.”

Sera snorted. “Maybe they think if they don’t keep an eye on you, you’ll fall back in.”

 “I hope not.” Finley scoffed.

“You really don’t remember what it was like in there?”

“No,” she shrugged, drumming her fingers against the roof.

“Good,” Sera nodded, her hair flipping forward around her face only to fall back into place. “Some things we don’t need. Like knowing what’s going on in the Fade. The demons can have their world, and we’ll have ours.”

“If only we could convince _them_.” Finley had known that she’d like Sera the moment the elf had shown up in Val Royeaux. Sera was refreshingly honest about everything. If she had a thought, she said it, even if it made those around her angry or flustered. There was no wondering if she was posturing or what her agenda might be, for she wore it openly on her face.

The seeker had seemed a bit wary of her, but she had said nothing when Finley accepted Sera into the fold.

The trip back from Val Royeaux had been an adventure, though. And not quite the kind Finley preferred. 

Solas and Sera had quickly fallen out of favor with one another. Further, First Enchanter Vivienne had accompanied them back, as well. She and the seeker had spent much of their first day talking quietly ahead, while Solas and Sera argued about ‘elf things’ behind. Varric and Finley had alternated between eavesdropping and making up outrageous stories.

Finley still had moments where she felt like she was going to drown, where she tried to remind herself not to get too attached to these people, as it would inevitably fall apart at some point, but they were becoming less and less frequent. She’d even gone over a day without such a thought flitting through her head. That had only made her worry the next day, though, that she was already becoming too careless.

Around noon, both Solas and Sera had attempted to trade conversation partners, leading to quite an awkward moment when they both came to Finley. Then she had to choose who to talk to first, choose whose topic to carry on with.

Without meaning to, Finley had ended up talking to Sera instead of Solas.

Her fellow apostate had settled for falling back to talk to Varric, who had quickly gotten out of the way to watch the ensuing madness. She’d felt guilty, and Sera had picked up on it, annoyed. She’d asked what was so great about Solas, and had berated spirits and the Fade when it was brought up.

Even so…she’d been so excited to close the hole in the sky. Everyone else had come to the Inquisition with grim determination. But not Sera. Finley had wanted to give Sera a real chance before she wrote her off as whiny or bratty.

By the end of the first day, they’d all reached an unspoken agreement that they needed to pick up the pace, and there had been little conversation after that. They rode hard during the day, and by nightfall they were mostly too tired to do much talking.

Finley hadn’t been able to sleep much, regardless. Her ghosts still haunted her, but Varric, Solas, and Seeker Pentaghast took turns staying up with her. They rarely talked, but the mere presence of someone else, ready to shake her out of her memories when they became too much, was a comfort.

Part of her was terrified that she might start relying on people so much, but she kept telling herself it would be alright. They were a resource. Why not use them while she had them? Once this mess was done and she’d gone home, she would have time to get back into the swing of things.

They’d arrived back in Haven that morning, to the sight of a burgeoning tent city. Dozens of people had stopped and stared as they rode through, utterly exhausted. Some had pointed, others had whispered. Finley had been too tired to try to look regal or…however it was she was supposed to be looking as the ever wondrous Herald.

Commander Rutherford had met them at the stables, briefly nodding to Sera and Lady Vivienne during introductions, and then ushering both an exhausted seeker and herald on to their war meeting.

The trip itself had been refreshing, with the wind in her hair as they rode their steeds across the countryside, but once they’d gotten into the mountains, it had been like a hand squeezing her lungs. She typically liked the cold, but somehow everything was just…too real. Too much.

This rooftop was the first time she’d really felt she could breathe all day.

She was oddly pleased that Sera’s company hadn’t ruined it. In fact, she felt like she was breathing easier, with the elf telling her how things were and what she ought to do about it.

As if reading her mind, Sera pointed over her shoulder toward the Breach. “So. When are we dealing with that, yeah? I mean, roof sitting and shite is fun, but there’s work to be done.”

“Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Rutherford are trying to get in contact with the templars, and Sister Nightingale is trying to contact the rebel mages.” Finley absentmindedly played with her braid. It was a mess, as usual, with locks looping into the wrong sections, some just falling free about halfway down. Despite her efforts, somehow it always ended up tangled. “Once we hear back from either of the sides, I think we’ll be heading out.”

“Hmm,” Sera tilted her head one way and then the other, her hair fluttering around her again. “So we’re here for a bit?”

“Once we know who to go to, we’re going to swing back through the Hinterlands, but yes.”

“Right, then. Let’s go, Herald.” Sera swung her far leg over to the side of the roof she’d climbed up and hopped up, skidding a few feet down the roof. Rather than try to stop herself, she went with it, crouching and gripping the edge of the roof when she reached it, swinging down and out of sight. Finley stared after her for a moment before she heard a thud and the elf’s voice drifted up to her. “C’mon, would you?”

Hopping to her feet, Finley walked down the roof, pausing at the edge so that she could angle herself right before launching herself into a nearby tree. From there, it was easy to swing down through the branches.

When her feet hit snow, she looked up and saw Sera had one arm crossed in front of her, supporting the other’s elbow as she rested her fingers to her chin. “Hmm…bit of a showy exit, innit?”

Finley looked back up at the tree, confused.

Sera didn’t give her time to follow. She gripped one of Finley’s wrists and began to drag her into Haven, pausing only briefly to stick her tongue out at Solas as they walked by. Finley waved at the elf, and he simply shook his head, going back to…whatever it was that he was doing. She didn’t have time to see.

“So. What’d you wanna do?” Sera asked when they were near the middle of Haven. She let go of Finley and brought her hands up so that her index fingers and thumbs formed a little square. She turned slowly, peering through it with one eye. “Where do you wanna leave your Heraldy mark?”

Finley blinked at her. “I…what?”

“Just ‘cause we’re stuck here don’t mean we gotta do _nothing_. Shite. If I wanted to do that, I’d be back in Val Royeaux. Plenty of prigs there to play with, yeah?”

Finley motioned back the way they’d come. “Well, I help Adan with alchemy a lot.”

“Yeah?” Sera perked up. “You like mixing stuff?” When Finley nodded, Sera thumped a hand to her chest. “Me too! Fire in a bottle, bees in nobles’ drawers and their _drawers_ …if you know what I mean.” She cackled, doubling over at her own joke.

Finley couldn’t help but laugh a little herself. As she shook her head, she realized that Sera was staring at her, wide-eyed. Even as she eyed the elf, a slow grin spread across Sera’s face. She darted closer to her, patting her on the shoulder. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile. Like, I’ve heard you make a few jokes and stuff, but you don’t really…it’s dry. Dry and dingy and sad.” She patted Finley’s shoulder again. “That’s no good, though, you know? I mean, if everyone up top is always grumpy, it’s hard for people down below to feel like they can crack a smile, either. Important people got big shadows, and they’re all murky and dark. Bleeding sad all over.”

Finley arched her eyebrows a bit, then motioned for Sera to walk with her. She didn’t pay attention to the direction. “If you were in charge, what would you do?”

“Me? In charge? Ugh,” Sera rolled her eyes dramatically, slouching her shoulders and letting her arms swing at her sides. “I don’t want that, yeah? I just mean, like, if you cheer up a bit, it helps. People see you smiling, and then it’s not so bad to smile themselves.”

“I got that,” Finley felt her lips twitching up as she watched Sera.

“So then what you want is…what?” Sera clapped her hands together in front of her, eyeing Finley. She scuffed the heels of her shoes against the snow as they walked, leaving an odd pattern in their wake.

“Just wondering what you’d do. If you were the one making all the decisions.”

“Well, I wouldn’t leave the hole up there,” Sera declared, loud enough that two templars passing them paused, glancing at them. “But I guess you aren’t really doing that, either. Takes time. And connections. And arse kissing. Not fun.” She crossed her arms, drumming her fingers against her sleeves. “Guess that’s why I’m not ordering people about.” She laughed. “Wouldn’t be too good at it, anyway. Too many people you gotta step on to be up top.”

“Surely not everyone important is a terror,” Finley offered.

“Eh, I guess,” Sera seemed almost disinterested. “I don’t really deal with those ones, though, do I?”

“More fun to prick the bad ones and see them squirm?”

“Right?” She paused, stopping in her tracks to watch the people scurrying to and fro down the road.

Finley watched as well. For the first time, it wasn’t just an overwhelming mass of people, pressing into her personal space and suffocating her. She saw one of the nurses that she’d assisted a few times, smiling and nodding to a few templars who had left the infirmary recently. Another man was carting vegetables toward the kitchens near the tent city. A few guards waved to one another as their patrols intersected.

So many were hurrying to do their tasks, each of them different, each of them contributing to the Inquisition, a tiny part that clicked into place and made the whole thing move fluidly.

There were so many _people_.

Yet, that wasn’t the frightening horror that it had been before.

When she finally glanced back at Sera, she saw the elf had a knowing smile plastered to her face. She tilted her head back a bit, nodding approvingly. “And you finally see them. _Your_ little people.”

Even as Finley felt an odd calm settle inside her, Sera gripped her arm and pointed. “Oh, oh! Lookit that! What’s that even do?” Before Finley could try to see what was being pointed at, Sera dragged her off, into the throng.


	14. Cremisius Aclassi

Cassandra walked along the training grounds with Cullen, discussing a few reports on demonic activity, supply lines, and the progression of different groups—templars, soldiers, mages. Despite the obvious issues that remained, things seemed to be coming along smoothly. Cullen was able to keep order within the ranks with little more than a well-timed stern look, an even voice, and a reasonable attitude. He pushed their soldiers hard, somehow able to stop just short of each of their breaking points.

 Cassandra knew she’d chosen well when she’d recruited him.

Even better, it seemed that their Herald really had turned over a new leaf. In Val Royeaux, things had gone…better than she’d expected, especially considering the way the lord seeker had acted. His violence had sparked indignation in Finley, which had overcome a panic attack, even as it came on. The Herald had thought Haven was a large gathering, and had not initially handled being in a space with so many people well…at all. Once she’d been offended, though, she’d impressed more than a few when she demanded the lord seeker not treat the revered mother so cruelly. It hadn’t changed _his_ mind, but it hadn’t needed to.

Since they’d gotten back, Finley had also started wandering around Haven more. Mostly, she was with that elf, Sera. Cassandra couldn’t say whether that was good or not, but it was…different. They interacted with people, helped with little things. When people looked at the Herald now, there were smiles, and the whispers were reassuring or pleased rather than skeptical.

Morale was up.

She’d even seen Finley talking to Mother Giselle and Leliana.

For the first time in over a month, it felt like there was actual, palpable hope.

Cullen looked up from the report he was explaining and then stopped in his tracks, jaw tightening ever so slightly as he stared ahead. Following his gaze, Cassandra narrowed her eyes, unsure whether to trust what she was seeing or not.

Minds on the same page, the two of them started walking again at the same time.

“What is the meaning of this?” Cassandra stopped next to a few crates that had rather conveniently appeared near the training grounds, next to where the newest recruits practiced their sparring. Herald Finley sat at the middle of the makeshift seat, Sera to one side and Varric to the other. The elf was munching on an apple as she stared at Cassandra, apparently completely disinterested in answering the question. Did she not understand that the Inquisition wasn’t some misfit band of friends and that ranks _did_ matter?

Beyond the elf, there was a fourth member to their little crew, though Cassandra didn’t recognize the man. His head was shaved on the sides, the top grown a bit long and swept back. His armor marked him as a mercenary. He also had an apple, and a flask of water resting beside him. When he saw the commander and seeker’s gazes on him, he straightened up to give them a quick salute. Finley was the one who waved him at ease.

She was growing rather accustomed to being an authority figure, it seemed. A bit too much so, perhaps, as her role as Herald hardly put her anywhere in the military ranks. Cassandra paused as she wondered where she _would_ go, when out in the field with soldiers, closing rifts.

Varric grinned and motioned toward Finley. “Our great Herald is evaluating the troops.”

Maker.

Cassandra prayed the mage hadn’t decided to antagonize Cullen again. Things seemed to be almost good between them. Apparently her earlier chiding had worked, for the time being. While, according to Cullen, they’d made amends, he still wasn’t sure that it would stay that way. She was hard to read, he’d said.

“They’re switching partners,” Sera said, turning her attention back to the men and women training.

Apparently, the quartet had been around long enough for their entertainment to get over having an audience. However, with Cassandra and Cullen there, a few of them kept glancing their way, nervous looks plastered to their faces.

Varric leaned forward, chin cupped in his hands, Bianca resting against the crate, near his feet. “Hey, Stardust, what about the guy with the orange-ish hair. Tattoo looks like he was going for a carta look without knowing what it meant.”

Finley had been mid wave to Cassandra and Cullen when he’d spoken, and her hand lowered slowly as her gaze swept the area before them, finally landing on the man Varric was talking about. Cassandra and Cullen looked at him, as well. When he defended, he seemed to have trouble keeping his shield arm steady. Both commander and seeker looked back at the quartet. Finley leaned forward, eyes narrowed, focused on the recruit.

Sera sucked in a low breath, drumming her fingers against her apple. “I’d have an arrow in his arse before he could get a proper footing, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t matter how good his front guard is if you’re aiming for his ass, Buttercup,” Varric cracked a crooked grin.

“Poor bastard,” the fourth member of their crew remarked, his voice husky. His bit into his apple, chewing thoughtfully.

“ _Butt_ -ercup,” Sera laughed loudly, bits of half-chewed fruit flying from her mouth before she could cover it. She leaned back, eyeing Cassandra and Cullen. When she talked, it was to Finley. “I think you’re _needed_ for Heraldy things, Your Ladybits.”

“I think it’s a torn muscle that healed wrong,” Finley finally said, sitting upright again and then looking over to Varric with a shrug. “Something that happened a long time ago. He’s used to the lack of strength and a bit of limited movement, but it’ll be hard for him to overcome it.”

Cassandra’s gaze flitted to the man they were talking about again. She watched him fighting. His stance was good, his grip firm, but they were right…his guard was too weak. If she were fighting him, she’d meet his shield with hers as hard as she could and stab him while he was off balance. He’d be down in a breath.

“You’re watching the recruits for weaknesses?” Cullen asked, tucking his reports under an arm and stepping over to stand next to Varric. As his gaze turned back toward the recruits, Cassandra could feel their nerves heighten.

No one liked having their boss watching over their shoulders.

“Stardust has a gift,” the mercenary offered. He paused when Cassandra and Cullen’s brows dipped down. “Er, Lady Herald.”

“I prefer Stardust to Herald.” Finley shrugged lightly, leaning her hands back and propping herself up as she idly scanned the other fighters. “And it’s not so much a gift. Just a matter of simple observation. Situational awareness, if you will. Know the people around you, and you know your fight, or when to run.”

Varric chuckled, reaching out and lightly hitting Finley’s arm with the back of his hand. “It’s no wonder the templars never caught her, what with her able to figure out their weak ankles and bad joints at a glance.” He shook his head. “You must have had some incredible escapes in the wilds.”

Even as Finley’s gaze snapped toward Cullen and Cassandra, as though she fully expected them to both try to accept the challenge and tackle her, Sera shrugged. “I like it. It’s not magic-y or nothing. Nice regular people watching. Seeing what don’t work, seeing what went sideways.”

It took effort on the Herald’s part, but she closed her eyes and rolled the tension from her shoulders, drawing her legs up crisscross on top of the crate. “He might do better with daggers. Maybe see if he has any gift for traps and the like?”

Cassandra arched her eyebrows. “You can’t just heal him?”

“I generally heal injuries as they happen, but I suppose I could, in theory. Don’t know that I’d want to experiment on him to prove it. And anyway, that injury is old. His body knows it too well. He knows it. He’d probably spend just as much time having to learn to rein in the extra energy he puts into his guard as he would just learning a new skill.” She watched the recruit a moment longer. “Even if he wanted me to try, I doubt he’d be ready to fight to close the Breach, since we are doing that sooner than later. Give him a dagger, and he’d probably learn quicker.”

Neither Cassandra nor Cullen had expected her to offer a solution that didn’t involve magic. The seeker strode closer, sliding up so that she could lean against the crate between the Herald and Varric. “Do you have suggestions for others, as well?”

“Hmm…not today,” she shrugged. “I already gave Lieutenant Ryan my notes from yesterday. He’s dealing with most of the issues.”

Cullen crossed his arms, shifting his weight. “That’s…very helpful.”

“Right? Our Herald is a helpful lady,” Sera leaned forward, gripping the crate. Even so, she nearly toppled forward. She flailed her legs to kick herself back into place, her short blonde hair fluttering wildly around her face.

“I am a healer,” Finley offered. “I am always helpful.” Abruptly, she seemed to remember something and turned to Cassandra, motioning toward the mercenary. “Speaking of help, may I present to you, lady seeker, Cremisius Aclassi, second in command for the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company.” The mercenary stood upright again and gave them a proper bow. Finley motioned to Cassandra and Cullen. “This is Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Rutherford. I believe you need to speak with them on joining the Inquisition.”

“You are no longer offering invitations, Herald?” Cassandra teased dryly, arching an eyebrow when Finley blinked at her, innocent like.

She tugged her braid over her shoulder and wound it slowly around her fingers. “I thought recruiting larger groups would likely be out of my…jurisdiction.”

“Oh?” Cassandra had to fight a small smile. “I’m glad to see you have some reservations with wielding your newfound power.”

Cremisius listened to them patiently, waiting until Finley had rolled her eyes dismissively to Cassandra’s quip before speaking. “Sers, if you would have us, we’re the best mercenary company you can find. We’re expensive, but worth it.” He paused a breath before adding, “We’re currently finishing up another assignment, hunting down some Tevinter slavers on the Storm Coast. If you want to see us in action…”

Cassandra noticed the way the Herald perked up, eerie eyes flashing and making the gold in her irises look almost like molten metal. It was a quick reminder that she was a mage.

Fade-touched, Cullen had told her.

Whenever a mage completed their Harrowing or went into a lyrium induced sleep to wander the Fade, they woke with gold in their eyes that shimmered with other-worldly light. Usually, it faded over time, leaving most. On the rare occasion, it left a thin ring of yellow around their pupils. Typically, that only happened if something substantial happened during their time in the Fade. Vanquishing a demon and getting caught it the magical backlash of its final spells. Things of that nature.

That she had physically been in the Fade…it was no wonder her eyes looked like a sunburst.

Cullen thought they would begin to fade soon, but Cassandra had her doubts. When the mage used her magic, that eerie light flared most noticeably, but that flicker of other-worldliness was always there, in her interest, in her suspicion, in her caution. Any emotion seemed to spark its burning back to life.

If she asked Herald Finley, would the apostate even tell her what had caused her eyes to be so, if it hadn’t been the Conclave?

“We can’t really afford to send people to the Coast, at the moment,” Cullen was apologizing.

Finley reached out, lightly touching Cassandra’s arm. The seeker started from her thoughts, blinking and meeting the mage’s apologetic gaze.

“If it would be amenable, I could go,” She was playing with her braid again. “After all, there are rifts out there, yes? They will need to be closed, so why not now?”

Cullen crossed his arms. “Should we get word from…” He seemed to consider whether to discuss more critical Inquisition politics in front of a stranger. “We may need you, on short notice.”

“Tits ‘n pointy bits,” snapped Sera, tossing her apple core at the commander. It bounced off his shoulder, and his eye twitched. “She might be needed, so she’s gotta stay holed up where she doesn’t do shite?” Her voice was loud, and rolled over the training area, catching more than a few glances.

“There is more to it—” Cullen began, exasperated.

Finley leaned over, slinging an arm over Sera’s shoulders and swaying with her, knocking the elf off balance. Sera let out a string of unpleasantries before batting free from her grasp. “I think what Sera means is that I should like to get on with the whole saving the world nonsense, and it feels most unproductive sitting about, watching the training grounds to see these fine soldiers take their shirts off.”

“Maker’s breath…” Cullen coughed, a pinkish hue dusting his cheeks as he hazarded a glance toward his recruits. A few of the nearer ones were grinning like fools, but none of them broke their training regimen.

“And here I thought you’d come by to offer assistance to our ‘fine soldiers’,” Cassandra said in her usual dry tone. Even as Finley offered her a mischievous smile, Cassandra crossed her arms. “It is a good point, though. We should not be sitting idly by.”

“We haven’t been,” Cullen argued.

“You haven’t been,” Cassandra reached out and patted his shoulder. She looked back at Finley, and then to Cremisius. “We will leave in the morning, to the Storm Coast, to meet with your company.”

“Excellent,” the mercenary bowed again. “I’ll get a head start. Our boss, the Iron Bull, will be pleased.” He hesitated, realizing he hadn’t really offered the seeker or commander much in the way of details.

Finley waved him off. “I’ll fill them in. We look forward to meeting the Chargers.”


	15. Weakness

Cullen stood at the war table, frowning as the Herald leaned against it, and that damned leg squeaked. He’d spent likely four full days—spread out across the weeks they’d been there, of course—trying to fix that thing. It seemed to refuse to be settled out of pure malice.

Or at least it felt that way.

Josephine and Leliana stood to either side of him, idly talking about what details were being smoothed out, what things were going wrong, and what new problems had arisen in the short span of the day. It amazed him how quickly things could change.

Cassandra and the Herald stood on the other side of the table. Cassandra was talking with Leliana about logistics for travel while their Herald simply inspected the different place markers with a quiet curiosity. She picked up one notating a possible supply line and turned it slowly, watching the way the light glinted off of the metal.

He almost reached over to take it from her, but before he could, she set it back in the exact place it had been before.

She paid attention, after all.

It was somewhat of a relief, as it was one less thing to add to his headaches, one of which was snaking slowly through his skull, making his eyes hurt, and his own attentiveness waver. A whisper of a song echoed in the back of his mind, and he tried to push it out.

After these first few months, it would get better. It had to.

“If that is everything we need to cover, we can go pack our things,” Cassandra stated, already turning to the door, knowing the answer. She nodded to each of them. Did her gaze linger on Cullen? Did she know he was having headaches again? Even as he felt as though she could peer straight into his mind, her gaze moved on, pausing on their Herald. “I would suggest we keep our party small, however. It will make for faster travel.”

“I know Lady Vivienne is still working on getting everything squared away for her time with us,” the Herald said, straightening up a bit. Her braid slipped over her shoulder, swaying gently against her back, each swing a little lower. “I guess she left another mage as…I don’t know, First Enchanter interim or something of that sort?”

“Most likely, yes,” Cassandra nodded.

“Also, Solas has offered to take over tending to the infirmary while I’m gone,” The Herald laced her fingers in front of her and unlaced them, over and over, rocking slightly on her toes. “But Varric and Sera are already packing their things.”

“Lovely,” Cassandra murmured, her voice dry. “At least we will have a lively trip to the Coast.”

The Herald’s lips twitched up into a quiet smile, her gaze flitting from Cassandra to the floor. “I think it will be nice.”

As Cassandra swept out of the room, that incredible sense of purpose guiding her feet, Josephine gave everyone a smile and slipped out as well. The Herald turned to leave, but Leliana pulled her to the side, speaking softly. When she was done, the Herald gave her a short nod, and the spymaster hurried past her.

She paused in the doorway, glancing at Cullen, and then giving him an awkward nod. Before she’d fully turned away, she was walking back into the room, to him. “You…aren’t mad, are you? About the soldiers?”

Cullen scratched at his eyebrow slowly, trying to will the ache from his head. “Is there a reason I should be?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged a little. She was messing up her braid again. When he’d first heard she was from the Wilds, he’d wondered why she would keep her hair so long, as it seemed like it would just get caught on branches, or be something a templar chasing her could try to get a hold of. He frowned at the thought of someone jerking her backwards by her hair. “I know they’re your subordinates. I don’t wish to step on toes, like the other day, with my healing comments.”

She probably wouldn’t know what to do with her hands without it there to play with.

He coughed to clear his throat. “Helping me find better places for them isn’t really stepping on toes.” He paused, allowing himself a small half smile. “And if you’re there to watch, they may try harder to impress you.”

She laughed. “I doubt they feel I’m worth impressing, commander.”

“You’re the Herald, was all I meant,” he looked away, embarrassed. He hadn’t been trying to flirt. His headache throbbed angrily through his temples, the flush from his embarrassment only making it worse. His world was spinning, and he closed his eyes. He could swear he felt the whisper of magic on his skin.

He nearly drew his sword when that miserable whisper became tangible. He stopped himself as he stared down into the Herald’s eyes, his as wide as hers. Her fingertips were touching his temples.

A spell died on her lips, and she pulled her hands back. “I’m sorry. I thought…you seemed like you had a headache.”

_It’s no wonder the templars never caught her._

She could see his weaknesses, too, couldn’t she?

Drawing himself up straighter, he frowned, carefully stepping around her and heading toward the door. “I appreciate that you’ve dedicated yourself so thoroughly to healing, but please do not concern yourself with me. Should I need assistance, I will ask.”

That miserable thud of pain hammered away in his skull as he swiftly left the room—and the Herald—behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	16. Expanding Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, copypasta-queen- for reading this over!

****

It was late, and the rain was falling hard. It felt cool on Finley’s skin, and she shirked off her overcoat so it could splatter against and through her shirt, soaking her thoroughly. It didn’t send chills through her like the winds back home did, but there was a primal force there, something so much older and stronger than her. It made her feel small and invisible. It made her feel safe, hidden from a thousand curious stares.

A few loose wisps of hair were plastered to her forehead and neck. She’d undone her braid completely before they’d arrived, instead twirling her hair up into a bun. That would be easier to brush out, after all the weather it would have to bear. However, standing there in the storm, she let her hair down, the rain quickly tugging it the full length down her back, ending just below her rear. It was heavy with water, and she felt like she was melting away into nature itself.

How she needed to melt away.

While she’d claimed to want to go out into the world to close the rifts, that wasn’t the whole of it. In truth, she’d been trying to get away from the templars. It wasn’t that she thought they were going to skewer her. That fear had been unraveled, at least for the time being.

 Now, she was concerned for back home. Or rather, the people there.

She was fairly certain that Commander Rutherford and every templar there knew she couldn’t be the only apostate living out of their reach in the Wilds. After all, there were stories of wilds witches and the like. She was actually a little surprised no one had seriously accused her of being a witch, as she’d heard from others that such was almost always a natural course of thought for ‘civilized’ folk—Cullen had made a joke of it once, though he hadn’t pursued the matter when she’d shown no appreciation for such humor.

When she’d told Josephine about why she was there, she’d intended to tell her the whole truth, but…it had felt like it would have been a betrayal.

She hadn’t just been there to meet Enchanter Pernice. She’d been there on behalf of a small group of apostates, healers of the wilds. She had been asked to go because the others were former Circle mages or had had too many run ins with templars along the borders to feel safe going to the Conclave.

Of her group, they had felt that she would be safest walking amidst the ‘civilized’ world. Even if she was caught, Donovan—an old elven mage who had escaped from the Circles over thirty years prior and had been living in the Wilds well before Finley had ever stumbled her way into them—had muttered that she would likely not be made tranquil. Too gentle to be a threat.

Then again, Donovan was a crotchety old bastard who liked to lie, so maybe he’d been hoping she would get plucked up by the templars. Maybe he’d wanted to see if someone Fade-touched could actually have their connection to the Fade severed.

She wouldn’t put it past him. He did a great many things she would never even consider in the name of fine-tuning his spells. She didn’t always agree with his tactics, but he was a damned good mage who had never resorted to blood magic or demons, and one of the few who would keep a promise, no matter what. That was partially why he made a point of making as few promises as possible.

She had sent word to them just before the Conclave, when she’d stowed away her things, telling them that she was there and would update them shortly. And then…

Then the sky had torn open.

The spells she’d used—the ones they’d developed together—to talk to one another across great distances with relative quickness weren’t working anymore. Either they’d cut ties to her, or falling in and out of the Fade had damaged them.

Regardless of why they were defunct, she’d been isolated from them.

It was standard practice to give up on someone, if they were caught by the templars. Their honor would bind them not to mention the others, and it was an agreement between every one of them: if caught, we are but lone mages, living in a harsh wilderness.

It wasn’t much of a lie. Their homes were typically miles upon miles from one another.

Theirs was a fragile community, one that had been mostly forged during the Blight, when they’d all been stirred from their private corners of the Wilds to find help against the encroaching horde. Many had chosen to go back into isolation after the Blight ended, but some of them…

Finley had always kept a bit of distance from the rest of them, not wanting to fall into desperation if they were caught or lost to other horrors, but they had been her friends.

They were her friends, and she knew that the truth of their pacts were weak. She’d saved some of them before, others had dared templar executions to save lovers. They broke their own rules quite often, all in all.

And not one of them had reached out to her. Not one of them had attempted to find out if she’d survived the Conclave.

While she knew better than to expect them to charge into templar territory, part of her had felt like her circumstances were different from the usual misfortune. She hadn’t been careless and gotten caught in the woods. She’d left her home, for _all_ of their sake. The least they could have done was bind their sight to an animal to see if she was alive.

It had occurred to her that perhaps part of the problem was that she was so close to templars. While most sight spells were low key, it would only take one observant templar to notice. It would be like grazing a wasps’ nest. Minimal damage, and still a bunch of pissed off bastards trying to stab their sharp things into the ‘aggressor’.

Going to the Storm Coast had felt like a chance to get away from all the templar activity, a chance for someone to come out of hiding. She doubted Donovan would come to check on her, but there were others, shape shifters or dreamers, who could have hidden in plain sight, or tried to find her through the Fade.

It had taken them just shy of two weeks to reach the Storm Coast. She’d considered trying to initiate contact herself—to let them know she was alive—but somehow every time she’d tried to get a moment to herself, someone had shown up just as she was prepared to cast a spell. She didn’t want to have to come up with a lie for what she was doing.

After reaching the Storm Coast, they’d met with Cremisius again—Krem as his boss called him—and she’d quickly been swept up in accepting the Chargers into the fold and then traveling the Coast to deal with various problems.

The Blades of Hessarian had joined the Inquisition two nights ago. Cassandra though she was crazy for recruiting them, but she was glad that they’d managed to avoid most of the bloodshed.

The Iron Bull had been interested in the turn of events, as well. He had sent his Chargers back to Haven under Krem’s supervision, and offered to travel with the famed Herald, to get a sense for the Inquisition. He was an excellent fighter.

And he’d been interested in her healing abilities. Where had she learned them, had anyone mentored her? He’d wanted to know about the Wilds, asking dozens and dozens of questions. She’d avoided most of them. Sometimes Sera would come up with another topic, other times something would attack them. Once, when nothing else had been ready to save her from his queries, she’d ‘accidentally’ fallen off a small cliff.

The Iron Bull was persistent, though. He’d casually ask her something like, ‘Back in Seheron, _this_ happened frequently. We were always running in with the locals. I suppose that’s sort of like how you would meet with the Avvar?’

He was fishing, waiting for her to slip up and say something that would tell him more about, well, her.

She wouldn’t be so foolish, though. When he asked such things, she politely professed confusion, and he would grunt and settle into a watchful silence. He was more terrifying than a templar, in that regard.

There were reports of a final rift in the area, which was where they were headed now. They were following a river further from the coast, looking for some sort of waterfall. They’d made camp under a small outcrop of rock that was tall enough for the qunari to stand beneath without having to duck, needing a rest for the night. Tents had been angled to slope down from the rock, allowing them a rather decent, relatively dry area to lay out their bedrolls.

Finley and Sera had been the ones to hang the tents from the rocks overhead, and after more than a few slips and near falls, Sera had been the first to pass out. She snorted and giggled in her sleep, sprawled out so that most of her wasn’t even on her blankets.

They’d managed to catch one of the local animals, and Cassandra had cooked it over a meager fire for dinner.

It…that had been when things had started falling apart for Finley.

The quiet had brought in the reminders that she’d been abandoned to a foreign world. The roast had filled the air with the smell of burnt flesh. Since the Conclave, she’d been having trouble eating meat. Even as she’d tried not to think about her friends, she’d heard the crunch of her boots on the scorched earth. The ash stinging her eyes. She’d nearly stepped on someone’s hand when Cassandra had initially led her up to the Breach.

They’d been in such pain when they died. She wished they hadn’t felt it, but their faces said they had. Their mouths were twisted in silent screams, and she’d felt herself being drawn down into darkness, a deep, rumbling voice speaking just out of earshot. She couldn’t remember.

What had happened…?

And then Cassandra had tapped her shoulder, drawing her from the brink.

She’d felt so tired, though. Every time those images rose to sweep her away, she felt weaker coming back, and a part of her was terrified that one day soon she wouldn’t be able to pull herself back. Without the infirmary nearby for her to throw herself into her magic and her lie, she’d been having a harder time focusing on things other than the terrors she’d witnessed. The terrors she couldn’t even remember.

Cassandra had told her to go to sleep, that Varric was going to stay up to watch the camp. The dwarf had given her a half wave, and she’d nodded to the seeker as the woman lay out and went to sleep. Their newest companion had volunteered for the second watch, and already dozed off earlier.

Despite the seeker’s suggestion, Finley hadn’t wanted to see what dreams might await her.

After some time, she’d told Varric she needed to stretch her legs and had headed out into the rain.

She tilted her head back, letting the rain wash over her face. She’d given up on her makeup for the time being, and a small smile stretched her lips as she considered how miserable it would have been to have her eyeliner splashing into her eyes.

This was the furthest north she had ever been, and it was so…warm. She’d always favored a chill in the air, a crisp bite that forced the senses to stay heightened. Warmth made her sluggish and lazy. It reminded her of curling up in a big chair with too many pillows and blankets, watching a fireplace burn slowly as stories were told amidst kind laughter.

Simple pleasures of this civilized world, ones that so many seemed to take for granted.

They were nice things, but they weren’t hers.

The Wilds were her home, and they had just as many wonders and pleasures. She missed them so.

Why hadn’t anyone contacted her?

With the rumors of the great Herald of Andraste’s eerie eyes, surely they knew that was her. Or had those rumors not reached so far south? Did they even know the Conclave had been destroyed?

They had to have seen the Breach.

Another thought struck her abruptly, and she felt like her blood had been replaced with lead.

Were they entrenched in rifts of their own?

Stepping over rain-slicked rocks to the nearest tree that angled awkwardly near the cliff that ran along the side of the stream, Finley plucked a few leaves from its branches and began to twine them together, her fingers quick and careful. She picked a few more, adding them to the mass in her hand until she’d made a crude looking little bird. She cupped her hand around it and leaned her head forward, whispering between her fingers, like the words could get caught there.

“I know how to close the rifts. I can send the demons back.”

She blew into her hands and then opened them, palms facing up. The little leaf bird took flight, soaring out of her reach and into the rain, disappearing quickly from view in the dim light. It would be weeks before it arrived in the south, but perhaps it would get a response.

She just had to be patient.

They would be alright for that long, wouldn’t they?

“Neat trick,” a deep voice offered her, near her ear.

She jumped, whirling around to see that the Iron Bull was looming behind her.

He’d been bent over, peering over her shoulder to watch her work. More than that. He’d been watching her more closely than she’d thought. Had he ever really gone to sleep? Even if he didn’t know much, he knew. He knew there were others.

He knew.

She could see the other apostates, see the templars closing in, their homes in flames. She could see the twisted bodies at the Conclave, valiant men in armor accusing the ones she cared for of the murders, blades gleaming. She could see Cullen and Cassandra leading the Inquisition forces into the quiet, hidden places in the world, hunting, hunting, hunting…

Her breath caught in her throat.

How could she have been so careless with her magic?

“Don’t tell,” she whispered before she could stop herself. She was barely able to draw in the air to speak.

He blinked at her, the rain running down his face in little rivulets. “It’s not exactly like you were plotting Thedas’ downfall there,” he said, standing upright so that he seemed to form a tower of flesh and muscle. He crossed his arms. When she didn’t respond, he leaned his head forward a bit, squinting his eye through the constant barrage of rain.

She couldn’t breathe. Everyone was going to die because she’d gotten careless. She was never careless. She never let things spiral so far out of her control. She wasn’t—

Quite abruptly, he smacked his hand hard against her back. It forced the air from her lungs, and she instinctively took in a deep breath, sputtering as rain tried to follow down her throat.

Her back ached, but she could breathe again. She doubled over, propping herself up against her knees to take in more deep breaths.

“You’re surprisingly hard to get information on, considering that you’re rather meek and all,” he rumbled, squatting down so that he was pretty much level with her eyesight.

“I am not meek,” Finley muttered.

“Well, you’re hardly a bastion of confidence, either.” He scratched at his chin, inspecting her slowly. “I kind of expected the Herald to be more…authoritative. To have more of a presence. You…you feel like you could disappear in the blink of an eye.”

Damn right she could.

When she dared to look up at him, she noticed a spark in his eye. He’d gotten a better feel for her than she’d realized. Not that that seemed to be particularly hard for people. She was terrible at keeping her thoughts from being displayed on her face.

So then, had he said what he’d said because he meant it, or because he knew it would make her feel better?

She narrowed her eyes at him as she straightened up. Some of her hair had fallen over her shoulders, and it was a sopping mess. She was a sopping mess in general. And her shirt was see through with all the rain. With a cough, she crossed her arms in front of her, glancing back toward their camp. The fire danced dimly, reflecting odd patterns against the rain as it fell.

Standing up, he lightly patted her shoulder before starting back toward the camp. “See you in the morning, boss.”


	17. Passing Time

They’d headed southeast from the Southern Coast, instead of back to Haven, returning to the Hinterlands. Along the way, they’d sealed almost a dozen rifts, and people were beginning to take note. As they’d reach villages or towns, there always seemed to be at least one person who would offer them some friendly tips or a discounted room or request to join the Inquisition. Finley was still awed at how the Inquisition just kept growing, despite it all.

They always directed the recruits to the nearest Inquisition camp, sometimes accompanying them for a day or two to make sure they reached the area. That was how Sister Nightingale and the others kept track of them.

They sent short reports back, written mostly by Cassandra. Varric had offered to take over for her, but she’d declared that the people back at Haven didn’t need to hear horrendously embellished tales of adventure. Bull sent out a great many reports as well, though they were typically slipped to a quiet farmer or passing merchant. They were quite good at hiding their interactions. A bumped shoulder, an apology, a fearful look calmed a bit too quickly as the stranger turned away.

Finley was fascinated watching him, almost as much as he was watching her.

And watch her he did.

She was certain he was waiting for another leaf bird. Thus far, they’d both been disappointed.

It had been two months since she’d left Haven. She was glad for it, because Sister Nightingale and the others still hadn’t managed to gain an audience with either the mages or the templars. She imagined that if she’d stayed, she would have been driven mad, holed up as she’d been.

It was good to be out in the elements again. Many nights, they camped in fields or grottos, a few alcoves even. As night descended, they were the only ones for miles, and Finley was typically giddy with the thought, despite what she’d been learning from Sera.

Their travel was brisk, but on foot, and it gave them time to talk. Despite Cassandra’s constant dismissal, she loved Varric’s stories as much as the rest of them. Her eyes would glitter ever so faintly as he described a battle. Once, he’d caught her listening. With a smirk, he’d asked her what she thought, and, desperate to save face, she’d gone into great detail about how the fight he was describing could never have happened in such a manner.

Bull was another great storyteller, spinning tales of the distant Seheron and recounting the ways of the Qun.

Sera worked with Finley on alchemical mixes, and Cassandra helped her stay sharp with her combat practices, which were almost completely dodges and agility oriented. Bull also took up training with her, no weapons, just to see if he could catch Finley.

It was fun.

She would grip one of his arms as he tried to catch her in a headlock, use her momentum to swing over his shoulder, dodge to the side as soon as her toes hit the ground to make sure he couldn’t recover. Duck a kick, slide under a grasping arm. It was good to keep in practice, with the templars not chasing her outright.

Cassandra used her sword. She’d been rather cautious initially, but after accidentally inflicting a small cut on Finley’s arm—which the mage had healed easily—Cassandra had thrown herself into their practice more. Cassandra and Bull sparred, too.

The rest of them liked to watch that, with Varric insisting on bets as to which of the warriors were going to be victorious.

The practices were never too long—no more than twenty minutes—as they either hadn’t much energy from a long day’s walk, or wished to conserve their energy for the next.

This was easily the longest Finley had ever spent in the company of others, in a single stretch. As they traveled, fought, and talked, she learned what to expect of them. While she couldn’t always understand or predict their reactions, she knew that when Cassandra squared her shoulders, she’d heard something she was worried about. If Bull relaxed too much, he was preparing for an attack.

She knew how they would move in battle, and it made it easier for her to heal from a distance. She could direct her magic to them with ease.

It was the same for all of them, truly. Each of them was able to react based off the others’ actions. Demons didn’t stand a chance. The better acquainted they became, the less Finley had to heal, and the more she could focus on using her bow. She did so love her bow, though she wasn’t as good as Sera or Varric.

Because her skills were either weak or unnecessary, Finley inevitably turned her attention toward her other spells. Snares were out—she didn’t want them knowing she could manipulate plant life, especially after having gone so long without ever doing it in front of them—and so she began to consider what other spells she had in her repertoire could be counted as healing. While she wouldn’t cast anything offensively, she had a myriad of wards and boons that she always cast upon herself. She’d never tried casting them on anyone aside from herself though, and at night, she set about figuring out how to make the spells viable when extended to others.

Shields were the easiest—and ones she’d already used.

Sera had screamed the first time she used one on her, though, said it was creepy.

The words had stung, but then, Sera wasn’t a mage, was she? Finley had been sure to fill them in on her spellcraft as she figured them out from then on. She was trying a fire ward, and it might make their skin a bit warm. A frost ward brought light prickles to the skin.

They helped against the demons, rough as they were, but she kept tweaking them. Her goal was to get them to the point that the recipients of the spell wouldn’t so much as feel the magic encompassing them.

It would be a long while before that ever happened.

She wished that Solas or Lady Vivienne had come with them. Both were capable mages, and she would have liked others to bounce her ideas off. At the last official camp, she’d sent a request to each of the mages to work with them when she returned to Haven.

It wouldn’t be long now. There were no new reports of rifts in the Hinterlands, and they’d just sealed the easternmost rifts four days prior.

Indeed, the only thing they had left to do was something that Sister Nightingale had asked of her before she’d left. The spymaster had voiced that something was amiss with the Wardens in Ferelden, but she’d heard of a Warden Blackwall, someone who might be worth reaching out to. After all, having the legendary Grey Wardens on their side would be huge.

And Finley very much so wanted to meet a Grey Warden.

They’d stopped the Blight, after all. Sure, it had taken them a while—in the civilized world, they claimed the Blight had lasted but a single year, when in reality it had been plaguing the Wilds about a year longer. Some of her Wilds friends despised the Grey Wardens for their ‘inaction’, but then, it had been hard for them to get word to anyone about it.

She wondered what Warden Blackwall would be like. She’d heard stories of them before, when she was very little. How true had they been?

Varric had met Grey Wardens during his travels, and once he’d figured out that Finley was a little starry-eyed for the Order, he’d thrown himself into recounting valorous deeds of the great Bethany Hawke. Once, he’d mentioned another Warden—Blondie was all he’d called him—but as soon as he’d said it, his mood had twisted into something most foul, and for almost a full day the rest of the group had been pressed to fill the void in conversation.

Some of the recruits had told them stories, too, from the Blight. A few claimed to have met the Hero of Ferelden. Finley tried not to gush too much to Cassandra and Sera when she mentioned it later, trying harder still not to be disappointed when Cassandra pointed out that many of them were likely lying, hoping to win favor with the great Herald.

Her disappointment hadn’t held her down long.

Over the last two months, things had gotten better. Small as their group was, they avoided most of the heavy fighting, sticking to reports of rifts, and pinging across Ferelden’s map. They’d even been invited to stay at a Bann’s manor, though she was quite certain that the woman regretted that after they’d shown up. Sera had ended up breaking a chandelier, and Bull had broken two chairs before offering to just lean against the wall. At that point, they’d half expected the wall to give out on him, too.

Even with the silence from her Wilds companions, things had gone well. They hadn’t encountered too many bandits or templars or mages. She’d been able to heal injured children and farmers, to solidify her claim to being a healer and to spread the word of the Inquisition as a stabilizing force, rather than just an unruly upstart seeking power.

She’d been able to mend the world, to close rifts and restore order to nature—Bull had caught her mending a trampled bramble bush once, though he’d merely watched her then asked if healing plants was much different from healing people. She’d told him yes, but hadn’t offered to elaborate, and he’d seemed to accept that as a good enough answer.

This was the sort of adventure she could get behind. Not being in one place too long, not having people always watching her.

This, she could do.

She still had moments where the memories of the Conclave overwhelmed her, but she was coming out of them faster. She still couldn’t sleep for very long, though. But then, she’d never been able to sleep long. Too many memories of too many things, even before the Conclave.

“We should not take too long searching for this Warden,” Cassandra stated, as they made their way through the trees. They were well spaced, leaving plenty of room for sunlight. The ground was rocky, though, and most of the underbrush was small, with soft grasses hiding the sharp stones and places where one could twist an ankle easily. “As much as the Inquisition has grown, we will still need to get back. The Breach cannot continue to go unchecked.”

“If we don’t find him in a week, we could split up,” Bull offered. “Varric and I could find him, and you ladies could head back. People are probably missing their Herald, at this point.”

Finley frowned. She hated when they used their logic. She knew she would have to go back eventually, but it was so nice to be out, to feel free. “Do you really want to trust Varric to pitch the Inquisition to a Warden?”

“That might not be so terrible,” Cassandra stated, though she quickly recanted. “No. I lied. Don’t let him open his mouth when we find this Blackwall.”

“I’m right here, seeker,” Varric stated, dryly. He was generally one of the last people in their little convoy, taking up the rear with Bianca at ready.

“If it comes down to it, perhaps you could go back,” Finley offered to Cassandra. “And I could find him.” Cassandra sighed, appraising Finley carefully. “Need I promise not to flee back to my Wilds again?” She quipped, half smile in place.

“That will not be necessary. I know you will come back.” Cassandra stated, her typical confidence in place. “Rather, it would not do for the Herald of Andraste to be mauled by a bear before she closes the Breach.” Her lips quirked on one side at her joke, delivered in a tone as serious as ever.

They’d been walking for almost twenty minutes in a comfortable quiet when Bull finally began to peer around, occasionally stretching up as though a few extra inches would let him see for miles.

Sera eyed him, taking a few steps to the side, like she expected him to fall over. “Whatssat, then? Some Qunari battle ritual? Some Qun thing?”

Pausing, Bull looked down at her, brow arched. He laughed when he realized what she was on about. “Oh, that. I just…the seeker mentioned bears. I have heard horror stories of the bears in Ferelden.” He motioned around them, arms outstretched and palms up. “Where are they?”

“You _want_ us to run into bears?” Varric snorted.

“A big angry beast, animalistic rage bending it to charge? Knowing that only one of us will emerge victorious, both of our claims to life as legitimate as the other? Yes!” The last word ripped out of his chest like a crack of thunder. “I would love to run into some bears.”

“I don’t know, they can be quite cuddly,” Finley offered, slightly annoyed that he would assume the creatures would automatically be so aggressive. “So long as you aren’t being terrible to them.”

“Do you cuddle with bears in your Wilds?” Bull asked, smirk in place.

“Perhaps I ride them,” Finley brought her hands up, wiggling her fingers, “using my terrible magic-y powers.” Sera burst out laughing at the notion, and Varric grinned as well. Cassandra allowed herself a single, disbelieving bark of a laugh.

Bull, though. The look he gave her. There was a slow understanding in his face as he straightened up a little more, towering over the rest of them. His grin was more knowing than amused. “You’re the reason we haven’t seen any, aren’t you?”

Sera rolled her eyes with a scoff and slightly hard to follow comment, though it was Varric who seemed to really consider it. “You are a healer…and you’re weird enough. You’re some kind of animal whisperer, aren’t you?”

“Well, I do like animals,” Finley conceded. “They tend to be nicer than people. More understanding.” She picked at one of her sleeves as she walked, glancing around at their surroundings. “Less judgmental, too.”

“Spoken like a true hermit,” Varric shook his head. “But you can’t fool us anymore, Stardust. We know you like us.”

Finley gasped, placing her hands over her heart. “Slanderous lies!”

“Enough,” Cassandra rolled her eyes, though there was that approving glint in her eyes. “Let us remember that there is a world to save."


	18. Twisted Order

“And there are truly no griffons left, not even in the far north?” Finley asked, keeping her pace even with the Warden’s as they walked along the road. Cassandra knew that she had to be enthralled for her to not even notice that they were on one. Throughout their travels, the Herald had expressed on multiple occasions that she preferred fields and forests to any man-made space.

She was tempted to tell Finley again to stop asking their newest member so many questions, but Warden Blackwall had already laughed off her concern twice, saying that he didn’t mind answering what was permissible about the Order. It was, after all, an order of many secrets.

He also kept insisting that the Wardens were not nearly as interesting as Finley seemed to think them to be.

It did nothing to assuage her interest.

“If there are any griffons left, it would be _the_ single most kept secret within the order,” Blackwall offered. “One that a recruiter such as myself wouldn’t be privy to.”

Finley turned her gaze forward, eyes dancing with a childish wonder. “So they could be out there. In some secret place.” She sighed. “I would love to meet a griffon.”

“You find a lot of creatures in secret places?” Bull asked, walking just behind the two. Sera had claimed her spot on Finley’s other side. She seemed thrilled enough to listen in on the conversation as well.

“Oh, there are all kinds of those, if you are lucky enough to stumble across them,” Finley twittered, easily the most enthusiastic that Cassandra had ever seen her. “Many of the places were purposely hidden, though, so it makes finding them nigh impossible if you aren’t already looking.” She laced her fingers in front of her a moment before spinning in a half twirl so that she was walking backwards, facing Blackwall. “What about….”

Cassandra didn’t bother to listen to the question, shaking her head and facing forward. If she’d known it would be this easy to get the Herald to open up, she’d have hunted down a Grey Warden in the beginning.

Since they’d made it to the roads, Varric had moved up to walk with the seeker, letting Bull take up the rear of their party. “This is gonna be great when I tell it to everyone back at Haven.”

“Do not embellish too much,” Cassandra muttered.

“For once, I won’t need to,” Varric cackled. He reached up and absently scratched his chest, gaze ahead as Blackwall once again insisted that the Wardens were not nearly as fascinating as Finley thought them to be. More questions followed. “I’m surprised he hasn’t excused himself and run for the hills yet.” He paused and then his grin widened. “Not that it would do any good. She’d catch him before he hit the tree line.”

“She would,” Cassandra agreed.

“Seeker, are you smiling? Because if so, I’ve officially seen everything.”

Cassandra shot him a glare. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“Oh, of course,” Varric grinned. “You’re just relaxing your frowning muscles. My mistake.”

Even as Cassandra scoffed, Sera’s voice interrupted their conversation. “Andraste’s arse. What’s that?”

Cassandra and Varric both stopped, instinctively reaching for their weapons as they turned to see what the others were looking at. Finley was already a few yards off the road, taking cautious steps toward what looked like an injured templar. Cassandra hurried after her, along with the others.

Something simply felt…wrong about the man. At first she couldn’t place it, but when she got closer, she could see that he appeared to have some type of blood poisoning.

“Stardust, don’t touch him!” Varric cried out, bounding past the seeker to their Herald. He managed to reach her just a few feet shy of the slouched over man, gripping her by the arm and jerking her backwards. She stumbled, turning to the dwarf, obviously annoyed.

“The man is hurt.”

“The man has red lyrium growing out of his shoulder,” Varric hissed.

The rest of their party skidded to a halt around the fallen templar, forming a half circle, all of their weapons drawn. Varric tried to tug Finley back further. “I told you what red lyrium could do to people, right? When it was just near them.” He managed to drag her back a few paces, even as the rest of them took a few steps away. “This guy has it _in_ him.”

“I’ll be careful,” Finley twisted free of his grasp, trotting back up, ignoring protests from Sera and Bull as she dropped down to her knees beside the man. She held her hands out, just above his skin. Rather than try to cast a spell, however, she lightly brushed her fingers across his head. He was breathing. “Ser…? Can you hear me?”

The templar groaned, a strange noise rattling in time with the sound, as though he were possessed by something. Even Finley went rigid at that.

“Stardust, even if you can wake him up, he’ll be crazy. Trust me—”

She’d already placed her hands on him, whispering a soft spell. As she channeled her magic, the red lines running out from where the lyrium jutted out of his shoulder began to recede, slowly. The light surrounding her hands glowed a bit brighter. Her brow knit in concentration. She leaned closer, inspecting the red lyrium.

Varric had fallen silent, though his jaw was tense as he watched, Bianca aimed and finger on the trigger. As Finley worked, however, he slowly lowered his weapon, jaw hanging slack.

Having heard of what red lyrium had done to Kngiht-Commander Meredith, Cassandra was equally awed. It was good to see that such things could be dealt with, so long as a decent healer was about.

The templar’s eyes shot open.

Even as Finley stopped her spell and smiled at him, assuring him that she meant no harm, he let out a maddened scream and lunged for her. She threw herself backwards, barely managing to roll to the side before he was on top of her. The veins of red began to slither out from his shoulder again, overtaking the parts of his skin that had initially been corrupted and extending further.

His plated hands left deep gouges in the earth where he’d dug in, too slow as he tried to grab Finley. He rose to his feet, a maddened scream on his lips, and didn’t even flinch when one of Bianca’s bolts hit him in the shoulder.

Cassandra shot forward and slammed her shield into the man, knocking him off his balance, trying to make sure he didn’t go after Finley again. As she did so, she felt a magical shield encompass her. Good. Finley still had her wits about her.

Sera’s arrow slammed into an exposed part of his shoulder, near Varric’s bolt, near the lyrium.

Still the templar stood.

Renewed shields covered them as they circled the man, striking quickly, guarding each other’s weak spots. Blackwall managed to shield bash the mad templar from behind as Bull swung at him again, and the templar let out a strange gurgle as he met the Qunari’s axe. Blood bubbled up from his mouth, and he collapsed to his knees and then his side.

Cassandra whirled away from him, marching back over to Finley. She was on her feet, near Varric, magic just dying from her finger tips as she finished her last protection spell. Fresh blood covered one side of her neck. The templar’s aim hadn’t been as off as Cassandra had thought.

A trill of guilt passed through the seeker as she examined Finley. The blood was there, but the wounds were gone. “You are well?”

“Yes,” Finley murmured, a scowl settling on her features as she looked down at the templar. She reached up and felt her neck, shuddering when her glove came back bloody.

“And that’s why I told you to stay away from him,” Varric snapped, smacking her on the arm. “Believe it or not, I’m not _all_ bullshit!”

Finley didn’t reply, instead walking cautiously over to where the templar had fallen. She stopped a few feet short, taking in a quick breath. “He’s still alive.”

Cassandra recoiled at the thought as she looked down at the red lyrium touched templar. How…?

Before she could even think to ask, Sera was shouting. Something hit a rock in the grass behind her, and Cassandra instinctively spun around, bringing her shield up and deflecting a dagger as it slashed toward her. She thrust her shield forward, knocking back the man who’d tried to jump her, and then gutted him with her blade while he attempted to catch himself.

As she turned, she found that several others had joined the fray, two rogues, and…

Her eyes widened. Three templars?

These men didn’t seem to have the same infection as the one they’d first found. They tried to coordinate their efforts, but between Finley’s healing and the rest of their abilities, the ambush failed.

As the last templar collapsed to the ground, Bull heaved his axe up over his shoulder.

Finley darted forward, hand outstretched. “Wait!”

Bull’s axe stopped mid swing, the Qunari nearly losing his balance in the process.

“Are you serious?” Bull rumbled, though he let his axe thud into the ground beside him.

Cassandra could see Finley struggling to come up with a reason, the Herald working a new hole into one of her sleeves as she picked at it. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on? They don’t seem to have mistaken us for rebel mages.”

“We can just loot ‘em for reasons,” Sera snapped, rolling her eyes when Cassandra let out a disgusted scoff. She held up a note. “They aren’t exactly using their stuff anymore, are they? Better to ship it off to someone who can make something with it than let it rust in a field.” She unfolded the note with her index fingers and thumbs, careful to avoid a bit of blood spatter on it.

Blackwall stepped up beside her, reading the note over her shoulder. His gaze flitted toward the templar with lyrium growing out of him. “They were under orders to retrieve that man.”

“And to kill anyone who saw him,” Sera spat into the grass, crumpling the note up in her hand. “Figures. Important tits can’t let their secrets out, I’d bet.”

Inspecting the templar that Finley had saved, Cassandra paced slowly through the grass around him. “Let us bring him back to Haven for questioning.”

“We’re almost a week out,” Varric protested.

“Well, if you think you can get information out of him sooner, then by all means,” Cassandra snapped. She motioned to the bodies surrounding them. “They were here for that man,” she pointed to the first templar they’d found. “We need to know why, and why he had red lyrium growing out of him.”

As Bull rummaged through his things to get rope to bind their prisoner with, Blackwall stepped over to the first templar, sword still drawn. He knelt beside him, inspecting him, and then slit his throat. “No reason for him to suffer, when he’s already too far gone.”

Though Cassandra had fully expected Finley to protest, the mage was quiet, simply turning her head away. Her lips moved, as though in a silent prayer. Cassandra had seen her do that on several occasions, and she wondered what gods the Herald prayed to.

It would be nice if it was the Maker.


	19. Tortured Souls

“He won’t talk,” Cullen muttered, arms crossed, head bent down. “We’ve tried offering him…well, anything. Everything we can. He won’t talk. I’m ready to let Leliana have at him.”

“Varric was as annoyed as you,” Cassandra murmured, pacing the small entrance to the dungeons slowly. Their prisoner was well out of earshot. “If you do hand him over to our spymaster, do not let Finley know. She’s already quite upset with our treatment of him.”

Cullen frowned. He’d read the report. After subduing the man, their Herald had healed his more grievous injuries. He’d tried to run on the second night they’d had him, and Bull had been ‘forced’ to put his axe in the man’s shoulder.

Again, Finley had healed him.

After that, however, she’d become withdrawn and quiet, much like she had been when she first joined the Inquisition. Well, that’s how it seemed to Cullen when he’d welcomed them back, only to have her breeze right past him without so much as a glance.

Cassandra insisted it was different. Her mind wasn’t lost, but focused on something so much so that she missed simple greetings and parts of conversations. Her brow was always scrunched down. Her eyes were not haunted with echoes of horrors that had already happened, but instead flickering with that eerie fire, her mind a whir with unspoken thoughts.

“I suppose you’re right. It won’t end well if she finds out,” Cullen muttered. If it had been a few months ago, he wouldn’t have even considered it a problem. Now, though, with so many coming in, speaking about the Herald as though she were the one leading the damned Inquisition itself, there was no way she could be quietly brushed to the side.

Whether she’d meant to or not, she’d made herself crucial in the political circles, as well as the demon fighting front.

“Yet we must to do something,” Cassandra conceded wearily. She ran her hands down her face and shook her head. “I will leave that to you, Commander. If you are certain you cannot break him, we must do as we must.” And with that, she turned on her heels and left.

Cullen considered going back to the man and trying one last appeal to him. Maker’s breath, he was a templar. If something had happened to one of his brothers in arms, he should have wanted to help him rather than hide whatever had gone wrong.

Following after Cassandra, he left the dungeons.

Perhaps that’s what he was doing? Had his friend been the one with the bright idea to use red lyrium instead of the traditional kind? If that was the case, he could see the Order trying to cover up such a blunder.

But the orders had said to kill anyone who saw him. That…that was a long way to go to cover up one man’s misstep.

This, with the way they hadn’t been able to get in contact with the Order, left knots in his stomach. His feet carried him off without him paying much mind. He kept thinking over why the templar would have turned to _red_ lyrium.

If he was given the option, would he have taken it?

The thought of lyrium brought a familiar hum to his ears. He missed it. He missed the way he felt after taking it, the power that coursed through him. Now, he had days where he felt so weak, like his own legs wouldn’t support him.

The headaches should have been getting better, shouldn’t they? He could feel one nibbling at the edge of his consciousness. It was always there, ready to bloom into a migraine at any slight provocation. Most days, he could ignore it if he threw himself into his work.

Now, though, wondering about lyrium, about where his order was…

No. It wasn’t his order anymore.

He wouldn’t be bound.

A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. Without realizing it, he’d gone to the small house they’d given him—despite his protests that he could stay out with the soldiers—and had taken off his armor. Really, it was a single room, with a side area sectioned off for bathing, but it felt like they’d wasted resources on his behalf.

Another knock sounded. He tugged his leather jerkin back into place, looped his sword belt around his hips, and went to open the door.

The Herald stood there, looking around idly, hand poised and ready to knock again if he took much longer. He furrowed his brow and started to ask what she wanted. Before he could focus enough to find the words, she strode into the room, hands already moving in vague motions as she spoke, her words assaulting his mind quickly. He missed the beginning of it, instead numbly closing the door after her, watching her pace in small circles through the room. Worse, her accent was more pronounced than usual, which didn’t help him follow what she was on about, either.

He tried to focus.

“…too familiar, and I feel like maybe that’s why it’s ringing bells, but not really? It’s wrong, but that was never particularly wrong, so maybe it’s…” She trailed off as she looked up at him, stopping in the middle of his room. “Do you think…?”

He rubbed his temples, praying she wouldn’t summon his demons. “Herald, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She took in a deep breath, crossing her arms. Her fingers drummed madly against her arms. Then, she turned and wandered over to a table near his bed, with his armor laid out on it. She ran her fingers over one of his gloves, her curiosity idle. “It’s wrong. Red lyrium.”

He didn’t want to have this conversation right now. He rubbed his face. “Yes, we know that.”

“But, it’s still lyrium. Just…wrong.” Finley glanced to the side and then at him. He considered telling her that she didn’t have to break up her thoughts quite so much, but she seemed to catch on. Perhaps it had been the sour look settling over his face. “I don’t know. I feel like it’s familiar, but that could just be because it’s lyrium, yes?” She began pacing again. She stopped at a small shelf, running her fingers across the different books’ spines there. Most of them were military strategy. Actually, all of them were. Cullen had never seen a point in reading things that didn’t have practical value. “I mean, I know templars use lyrium for…things.” She paused, tilting her head. “I know they get slower without it…”

“Is there a point?” Cullen snapped, his voice a bark. He startled both of them, and she turned on her heels to face him, her boots scraping dully against the floor. Cullen could feel the pain creeping into his skull.

_Even the Herald knows I’m not as strong…_

“Well,” she tugged on her sleeve, a finger hooked in one of the holes already there. “I don’t…know. You used to be a templar. Did they use red lyrium for more important rituals or something? Is that how it got in him?”

“I don’t know.” He took in a measured breath when he realized he’d snapped again. “What I mean is, I’ve never heard of anyone actually _using_ red lyrium, so I don’t know how he was…infected by it.”

She looked disappointed. Had she really come to him just to ask him about that? There were dozens of templars in Haven, templars still in the Order. Couldn’t she have asked them?

“It doesn’t make sense that he would be taking it,” she declared. “He was in pain. It caused him pain.” She paused, reaching up with her hands to hold her neck, the fierceness of her gaze softening a bit. “I could see the anguish in his eyes. Why would he do that to himself?”

Cullen lightly caught her arm and dragged her toward his door. He couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not with the headache whispering trills of pain through him. “I don’t know. Maybe he thought the pain was worth it.” Maybe the song was stronger with red lyrium.

He tried not to think about it.

“I couldn’t heal him,” she whispered, even as his hand was on the door handle. He stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him. He hesitated, looking back at her. Her gaze was on the floor. “I…” As he let her go, she brought her hands up and ran them through her hair, further messing up her usually messy braid. She kept it too loose. That was why it was always such a mess. She glared up at him, though he had the feeling it wasn’t really him she was angry with. “I am a good healer.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I can’t heal everything,” She started pacing again. This time, it didn’t seem nearly as grating on his nerves. “If you die, you’re gone. If you get something chopped off, you’re staying in pieces,” she shuddered at the thought. “I can’t fix a lot of things, I suppose. But…this. This was…I don’t know. It was a familiar break? Something I’ve tried to fix before and failed at. But I can’t place what.”

She grew so still for a moment.

He’d never seen her completely stop moving before, and the urge to shake her and make her start fidgeting again bubbled up inside him. This stillness was wrong.

He stepped toward her cautiously, reaching out to put his hand on her shoulder. Before he could, she abruptly turned around. “I don’t know. I can’t place it. I’ve been trying to think of my encounters with templars before, and nothing comes to mind.” She blinked up at him, clearly surprised that he was standing right behind her. However, the usual shiver of fear that seemed ingrained in her when she was too close to templars didn’t happen. Instead, she just furrowed her brow further. “What do you think?”

He lightly gripped the pommel of his blade. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what you’re asking me.”

She crossed her arms, glaring toward their toes. “That makes two of us.”

Despite his earlier agitation, he couldn’t help a slight smile. “You…came to rant to me, when you didn’t know what you were even ranting about?”

She straightened up with a sniff, indignant. “I just wanted to figure this out. It’s been bothering me since…since I couldn’t save him.”

He scratched the back of his neck before walking over and taking a seat on the edge of his bed. He patted the mattress beside him, and she followed, hopping onto it and pulling her legs up to cross them. Her shoes left a few flecks of dried dirt on his blankets, her pacing having dried most of the snow off of them.

“You tried, that’s more than most would have done.”

“You didn’t see him,” she whispered. “Bull split him open from side to side,” her fingers splayed across her own stomach as she paled, “and he was still alive. It had to have been the red lyrium. No man could have survived that…” She looked at Cullen, horror plain on her face. “Sera and Varric both hit him with arrows, and it was like he didn’t even notice them. He wasn’t a person anymore…just rage. So much…rage and pain.” She looked back at the floor, eyes wide. “You don’t think…you don’t think the Order would have done that to him, do you? To make him strong enough to take out the rebel mages?” Her shoulders quivered. “What if there’s more like him?”

“I’ve been wondering that, too,” Cullen admitted, resting his ankle on his other knee. “I would hope the Order wouldn’t do something so desperate, but…”

“Maybe it’s just a faction of the rogue templars?”

Cullen wished he could say yes to that. He had a strange feeling in his gut, though, that this was far worse than they could imagine. With what the red lyrium had done to his Knight-commander, he’d been worried people might remember the immense power it had given her, and not the horrible demise that had followed.

“Has his fellow templar said anything yet?” she asked. She frowned, drumming her fingers against her ankles. “I should have opened with that…”

“He will not speak with us,” Cullen replied before he remembered that he was planning on handing the man over to Leliana.

“You plan to take more extreme measures.” Her voice was flat.

“We…feel that whatever information he carries is likely of great importance. There was red lyrium at the Temple of Sacred Ashes after the explosion, and perhaps whatever happened to that other templar is tied to it.”

It had been horrifying to see. Worse, as they’d drawn back with the Herald, he’d been almost certain he could hear it whispering to him, even though he had never gotten close to it. It was going to be a nightmare to go back up there to close the Breach.

With a fluid movement, she’d hopped off his bed and turned, batting away the dirt she’d left on his bed sheets. “I’m sorry. I should have considered that before putting my feet up…”

It took him a moment to realize she’d changed the subject. He reached out and lightly caught her wrist. “It’s fine.” He patted the top of her gloved hand and then held it in both of his. “I know you don’t like violence, but sometimes it’s necessary to prevent something worse.”

She patted his hand and pulled hers free. Then, she turned and slipped out of his house, pausing in the doorway and looking back at him. “I’m sorry…”

He furrowed his brow. “For what?”

She hesitated a breath and then shrugged. “To have bothered you so late. I will try to stay mindful of the time in the future.”


	20. Betrayal

Finley peeked around the side of the pillar before slipping out of the shadows and heading toward the back of the Chantry. The building was quiet for the night, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was going to come in at any second and ask her what she was doing there.

She had a small pouch of sleeping powder ready in case someone did, but if she was forced to leave unconscious bodies lying about, it would just increase her chances of failure.

With luck, she wouldn’t come across anyone, and she’d be able to just do as she wished, without interference. She tiptoed as quickly as she could, barefoot, across the cold stone floor. She’d left her shoes in the rafters, to make sure no one would find them while she was there.

Josephine’s office was locked tight, as was the war room. Neither mattered, though.

Instead, she was heading down, into the dungeons.

She slipped along the wall until she made it to the door. Just as her fingers closed around the handle, she saw a pair of boots at the bottom of the stairs leading down, just barely visible through the grating on the door—the support beams and low ceiling made it impossible to see the rest of the guard. With a silent curse, she slid back against the wall, considering her options.

Truthfully, she hadn’t any. Either she could leave and forget this endeavor or she could take the risk of encountering the guard below. The former was absurd to even consider. She slipped back up to the door.

On the positive side, leaving a soldier sleeping down in the main corridor of the dungeons wouldn’t be in nearly as open an area. She could likely be in and out before he woke up. Though… if she did put him to sleep, he’d report it in the morning, wouldn’t he? Someone went down to visit the prisoner.

If her plan worked, Finley would confess before they could start an investigation.

Using a keyring she’d lifted from Commander Rutherford when she’d gone to visit him, she opened the door as quietly as she could—she’d used a spell to make the key she would need glow faintly so that she wouldn’t have to stand there, trying all of them.

The Inquisition’s advisors were going to use force to get their captive to tell them what they wanted to know, but they weren’t going to ask the right questions. They would want to know who was in charge, were the other templars missing because of this red lyrium, how many were like this, where were they?

Finley wanted to know why it was so familiar. It carried a sickness to it that she knew she’d dealt with before, and it was driving her mad that she couldn’t place it. It wasn’t like the water sickness or…anything she could place a name to, yet she was sure she should have been able to.

The advisors wanted to know who and where and why.

She wanted to know what and how.

That was why she’d stolen Commander Rutherford’s keys.

The fact that the man had kept them on him, even when he was out of his armor had been…quite cumbersome. At least, it had been until he’d gotten so frustrated that he’d just grabbed her and tried to drag her out. She’d had the keys the instant his eyes were off her.

He was a good man, though. She’d have to apologize when she was done—technically, she already had, though she’d played it off as the late hour of her visit. Perhaps she’d be able to bring information that would garner a begrudging acceptance of her tactics.

 Even as she swept up to the guard on duty, blew the sleeping dust into his face, and caught him as he slumped forward into a quick, dreamless sleep, she heard boots scuff against the stone floor and snapped her gaze over to see a second guard standing in the doorway leading down the main corridor, mouth agape.

Her cloak was in place, shadowing her face and hiding her telling features, and the guard no doubt thought that she was some enemy on the prowl. He cleared his throat to cry out as he drew his blade, and she darted over, using more of her powder on him. He staggered a few paces, his cry dying on his lips before he finally dropped his sword and slipped into unconsciousness.

This did not bode well. If either of them had a decent tolerance against the powder, her efforts would be interrupted early.

Taking in a few deep breaths, she steadied herself. It would be fine. If she could get what information she needed, it wouldn’t matter if she’d put two guards to sleep instead of one. Everything could still go as planned.

Finley dragged the both of them out of sight from the dungeon’s main entrance and then headed down the hall, gripping Commander Rutherford’s keys in her hand.

The chandeliers were well lit, at least. She walked along, peering into each cell, fiddling with the dungeon keys.

She stopped when she found the cell with the templar in it. In addition to the lock on his door, he had also been shackled to the wall. It seemed excessive, but Finley was hardly concerned with that. It wasn’t her job or place to question the dungeon quarters.

She held up the dozen keys and whispered a spell. The key that had been glowing dimmed and another began to shine. She slipped that one into the lock and allowed herself a satisfied smile when a simple click let her know it was open.

As she tucked the keys away in an empty pouch on her belt, she felt that keen prickle that came with a templar’s gaze. This one was so much worse than she was used to, and she hesitated as she raised her own to meet his. His hair was matted, and dark rings made his eyes sinister. It looked like they hadn’t been feeding him.

She knelt in the doorway. His shackles afforded him a few feet of leeway so that he could lower his arms. She wasn’t sure how far that meant he could reach with his feet, if he thought to use them. Hopefully, he wouldn’t.

They sat there in silence. Even chained to a wall, seeing a templar looking at her the way he was made a cold sweat break out on her skin. She tried to ignore it, hoping he wouldn’t be able to see how much he frightened her in this light. After all, the corridor’s light was behind her, no doubt shadowing her face.

“Are you well?” she whispered.

The man’s expression spoke volumes to his belief in her sincerity.

To be fair, she _didn’t_ quite care, so his skepticism was well-placed.

“I would like to speak with you about that red lyrium that was growing from your fellow templar.”

Silence.

Why couldn’t he be like a villain in a child’s book? One who readily monologued about his dastardly plans so that the valiant hero could save the day.

Granted, Finley wasn’t exactly a hero, but she could have used the not-so-subtle guidance.

How else did people generally get information? Aside from torture. To torture him she’d either have to get close enough to touch him—even chained to a wall and starved, he was likely stronger than her—or use her magic. That would likely draw notice from other templars.

Or just give him the opportunity to interrupt her cast, drag her closer, and snap her neck.

She had not thought this through very well…

“You know, if you would just talk to us, you could join the Inquisition,” she offered. She moved forward an inch. “I’d vouch for you.”

“Stern didn’t work, so they sent the sweet one.” The templar spat to the side. “A sweet mage. How novel.”

“The man who had red lyrium in him, was he your friend?” She tried again. “I tried to help him, but whatever the lyrium did to him…I couldn’t fix it.”

“Maybe he didn’t need fixing,” the templar shot back. The way he shifted his weight, however, made her sure that he didn’t believe that. He looked so tired.

Tired and pained.

Finley frowned. She’d never honestly needed to talk to a templar before, and now she found herself wondering what sort of reassurances she could give him to get him to trust her. The mere thought seemed ridiculous. If she was the one chained to a wall, she certainly wouldn’t have trusted him.

Though…they _had_ had her in chains, before, hadn’t they?

“If it helps, they had me in one of these rooms, too, when I first came.” She shrugged her arms out a little, motioning around them. “Now they call me the Herald of Andraste and let me wander all over the place. Fortunes chance with a bit of faith.”

And a mark on her hand to make sure they couldn’t kill her without damaging their cause. Perhaps his knowledge of red lyrium could be his mark.

Though, where would that put him once he’d given that knowledge up?

The templar stared at her, brow scrunching together, a slight look of either disgust or dismay settling over his features. She couldn’t tell which in the dim light.

She knocked back her hood and pulled some of her hair forward, fingers playing with it, twisting locks and winding strands. “What I mean is you don’t have to be a prisoner. You could help.” When he scoffed, she twisted her mouth to one side. “I can’t help you, if you don’t talk. They’re going to hurt you to get what they want.”

His gaze flitted back to hers, eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know that? You can do whatever you want to me. I don’t care.”

Despite it all, she had to respect that he would stand his ground. Perhaps templars had pacts similar to the ones she and her fellow apostates had. That sense of loyalty, the need to protect their brethren so that further harm would not come to them…

It felt strange thinking about a templar as anything other than a hunter.

She inched closer. “I’m not asking you to betray your people. Just tell me about the red lyrium itself. Help me, and I’ll help you get out of here. Once you’re free, you can go back to your people, if you want. I won’t stop you.”

He lurched forward, nearly gripping her arm. She barely managed to jerk back out of his reach. “You expect me to believe you actually care what they do to me?”

“Of course I care,” she snapped. It was true enough, though it wasn’t for the altruistic reasons that he was likely struggling with. “I don’t know, maybe you’ve done terrible things. But you haven’t wronged _me_. I have nothing against you.”

“I tried to kill you.”

“Many templars have. It’s what you do,” she shrugged. “It doesn’t mean we can never be of use to one another. You are a protector, and I am a healer. Let’s work together and set things right.”

He was silent for a long, long moment before finally settling back against the wall, tilting his head back slightly as he watched her. “You mean that.”

“I do.”

“Your compassion is worthless.”

“Why?” She shook her head. When he didn’t answer, she edged forward again. “I am a healer. I can feel when something is unnatural. Red—”

“ _You_ are unnatural,” he interrupted. “That poison in your veins is unnatural. It’s an abomination. Do not think you can lecture me on such things.”

And there it was.

That unspoken ‘truth’ of the civilized world that Finley had seen echoed in eyes but never spoken. That accusation of being a blemish on a perfect world.

Kind eyes devastated with disappointment flickered up from Finley’s memories, and she winced at the templar’s words before she could help herself. His gaze narrowed. The pinpricks of being under his watchful stare were more like tiny knives slicing into her.

Fighting hate with defensive statements of innocence never worked. Not in the Wilds, not here.

“Perhaps I am. Unnatural.”

At that, he straightened a bit where he sat, waiting for the catch.

She let her gaze drop from him. She was still out of reach, and he was unarmed. It was safe to take her eyes off him. Maybe if she could make him believe that she was on his side… “Perhaps that’s why I recognize things that are wrong so easily. Because I can see myself in it. It could be possible.” She tried not to grimace as she spoke the words. With luck, he’d mistake it as self-loathing if she did mess up. “Despite what I may be, I am doing everything in my power to make this world a better place. Red lyrium is just as much, if not _more_ of a poison than magic.”

As he stared at her, bewildered, the candlelight hit his eyes just right, and she caught a glimmer of red. Normally, it wouldn’t have meant anything, just a reflection in the darkness. But now…

“You’ve taken red lyrium, too, haven’t you?”

Fear twisted his face, and he curled closer to himself, as though trying to keep his secrets from being exposed further.

She had felt something inside of him when she’d healed him on the road, but she’d assumed it was just her own struggles with magic—it was still more draining to cast on others, even if she was getting considerably better at it.

It was with shameful reservation that she realized she had been too caught up in what had happened with that first templar to see what was going on with this one.

“You can’t save me.”

“How do you know if you don’t let me try?” she asked gently.

“Cast your spells and maybe I will,” he replied, his smile more of a sneer.

One step forward, two steps back.

Most of Finley’s spells were still short enough that it was hard for a templar to interrupt, but if she cast while he was sitting right in front of her, waiting…

She sat down, her back against the bars of the cell. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how tricky and spiteful magic can be,” he scoffed at that, though it was followed with a slight nod, “and perhaps this is because my training happened outside of the Circles, but for me to heal an injury, I need to know what type of ailment it is.”

He narrowed his eyes again, but said nothing.

“Mending a broken bone is different from mending a cut, and neither is the same as fixing a bruise. A crushed windpipe requires a different spell than one used to lower a fever.” Never mind that the latter was never a permanent fix. “And poisons. Ugh,” she shook her head. “There is a nightmare.” She leaned toward him a little, eyes darting toward his hand when he brought it up to scratch at his stomach. He seemed most amused by the tension that rippled through her before she could force it out. “Red lyrium is a poison, isn’t it?”

“All lyrium is a poison.”

“Truly?”

He arched his brow, tilting his head to the side. “You didn’t know?”

“Lyrium is a scarcity where I am from.”

“How do you replenish your mana?”

Finley felt herself bristle at the question—a reaction that further amused the templar across from her. He was still scratching at his stomach. “There are herbal remedies that help with regeneration. Those and time.”

“Embrium.”

“You’re an alchemist?”

He snorted. “I worked in a Circle Tower for fifteen years. The mages used to bitch when it was out of stock.”

Arching her brow, Finley shrugged. “Then you already knew.”

“I thought you might have different methods, what with being a—”

A door slammed open down the hall. Both of their heads snapped toward the sound. Finley instinctively hunched lower toward the ground as the sound was followed by the stomping of boots.

A pause, no doubt at the sight of the sleeping guards.

When the footsteps resumed, they were faster—a jog.

Fuck.

She hadn’t learned anything.

“What is red lyrium? How is it different from regular lyrium?”

“I don’t know how they make it,” the templar replied, his tone puzzled as he noted the panic Finley failed to hide. “It’s stronger.”

Lovely.

It wasn’t what she was looking for, but it _was_ a nice little detail to give her nightmares about being chased by templars.

The boots were getting closer. She could hear swearing.

Commander Rutherford was swearing. She could guess why.

She fumbled on her belts, pulling loose a small pouch and tossing it to the templar. He caught it instinctively, though he quickly paused, brow knitting together as he gave her a puzzled look. “Chew on those to numb the pain, but don’t swallow. If you do, you’ll have pain in your gut like you wouldn’t believe, and you’ll wish it would kill you—”

“Herald!” Commander Rutherford’s voice echoed harshly through the dungeon.

He was beside her and yanking her out of the cell before she’d realized he’d even made it to her, slamming the door behind them, using a second set of keys to lock it back. He gripped her around the shoulders, hot breath hissing into her ear as he pushed her out of sight of their prisoner. “My keys.”

She dispersed the spell she’d used on them before she drew them out, hoping he would be too angry to catch the dispel, and held them up. He scowled, tearing them out of her hand.

As soon as her stolen goods had been returned, he whirled her around, releasing her only long enough to catch her arm in vice grip, his voice still low. “Just when I think you cannot be more—”

Laughter stopped him. His words had carried further than he’d meant them to, and the red lyrium templar was cackling at the situation playing out to his ears.

The commander’s grip tightened as he stormed down the hall, dragging Finley after him. He did, however, slow his pace ever so slightly, when Finley stumbled trying to keep up.

Sister Nightingale was waiting in the main hall, arms crossed, looking rather tired, but hardly concerned. Her hair was neat, and she was in delicately embroidered, silken night clothes. She yawned as Commander Rutherford flew up the stairs, Finley still in tow. He barely slowed his stride, making a beeline to the war room. With a flick of his wrist, he had the right key in hand and unlocked the door. He shoved Finley through the open doorway.

She stumbled forward, nearly colliding with the war table.

“Gentle, commander,” Sister Nightingale murmured as she walked in after him, closing the door quietly behind her. 

He ignored her, stepping up to Finley until they were practically chest to chest. He was in nothing more than his undershirt, trousers, and boots, with his sword strapped around his waist. His hair was disheveled, and little more than a mass of golden curls. His face was gaunt, and there was a fury in his amber eyes that she’d never seen before.

“What were you thinking?” He cried. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “You do NOT—” He cut himself off, beginning to pace back and forth, gaze never leaving hers, like a wolf ready to pounce. Or a lion.

That nickname of his suddenly made a lot more sense.

“Where do I even begin,” he hissed, running his hands through his hair, fuming.

Sister Nightingale waited, leaning against the door. “Perhaps, commander, you should go take a walk. I can speak with our Herald.”

“Not a chance am I letting her out of my sight,” he snapped, glaring angrily at their spymaster. The sister’s expression seemed to ask if he really thought she’d lose their Herald. He turned his rage back toward Finley. He paced to her again, putting one hand on either side of her against the war table, effectively pinning her in place without laying an actual hand on her, not even registering when the table shook a little from his weight. “You do NOT visit prisoners on your own. You do NOT distract guards from their posts. And you NEVER,” he hissed, leaning forward to make sure she was listening, “You NEVER steal from me again. Do you understand me?”

A tense, quite moment passed in the room as she leaned back to keep at least a little distance between them.

She took in a short breath, swallowing slowly. “I hear you, commander.”

He narrowed his eyes, searching hers for a lie, waiting for a sarcastic comment to make things a thousand times worse.

Even she knew better than to provoke a templar when he was already this angry.

He eased back a step, releasing the table, though his face was still twisted into a scowl. “You can’t just go rushing in without thinking! Do you even know what he could have done to you?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Finley bristled at his words. More than that, she bristled at the flutter in her chest that had come from those words. He’d been worried for her. “You think just because you’ve got a few dozen templars on leashes around Haven that I can just forget? I know _damned_ well what templars do to mages, commander.”

The words seemed to find a way home that she had not intended. Commander Rutherford jerked straighter where he stood, as though he’d been struck. He paled and then cast his gaze aside. “You must remember that you have the mark. If we lose you, we lose—”

That agitating flutter vanished as quickly as it had come.

No. He hadn’t been worried for her. He’d been worried for the mark.

How silly that she could get those confused. After all, she knew far better than that.

“You think I don’t know?” Her voice rose as she spoke. She flung her arms out, one hand knocking over a place marker and making the entire table shake. “I’m well aware of how important the mark is, Commander Rutherford.” She shook her head. “And every soul here is more than willing to remind me on a daily basis.” It was her turn to scowl. Despite a little voice in the back of her head whispering to be careful, that people never liked an angry mage, she strode up to him, shoving her hands against his chest. Despite the effort she’d put into it, he barely flinched. “Did you ever stop to consider that maybe I’m alive—after two decades of living in a place that your kind loves to deem barbaric, after two decades of avoiding capture from templars in full armor who aren’t half starved and _chained_ to a _wall_ —because I’m not completely incompetent?! That maybe, just maybe I might actually have some semblance of a clue as to what I’m doing?”

He caught her hands and jerked them back from him, not hard enough to hurt her, but with enough force that said he wouldn’t tolerate such an action again. His hands encompassed her wrists so easily. “You’re not in your wilds! How many times do we have to tell you to work _with_ us before you’ll actually listen?”

“Cullen…” Sister Nightingale had stepped up to them, her hands carefully reaching to untangle his from Finley.

“Maybe people would be more willing to work with you if you didn’t kidnap them and accuse them of murder!” Finley cried out, kicking at him without thinking. Sister Nightingale caught her around the waist and dragged her out of reach, even as the commander sidestepped the assault.

“That man tried to murder _you_ ,” Commander Rutherford hissed. “If you’re thinking he’s in even a remotely similar situation to yours, you’re wrong! Acting like this is just going to help our enemies to—”

“You don’t even know who our enemies really are!”

Commander Rutherford strode back to her so that they were toe to toe, even as Sister Nightingale let out a lowly hissed warning. Pointing back toward the dungeons, he cried out, “ _He_ is our enemy!”

His words filled the room with such force that Finley instinctively cringed back into Sister Nightingale.

Instantly, he looked like he regretted it. His fingers gripped his hair, tugging locks free to curl wildly around his hands as he closed his eyes. “I can’t believe—”

“Enough, both of you.” Sister Nightingale’s voice was sharp and clear, without ever raising above her normal volume. “What’s done is done. Let us talk about this civilly, lest we _all_ leave with headaches.”

Commander Rutherford flinched as though the words had been spoken as a jibe at him specifically.

She’d noticed he seemed to have headaches before, but this made her wonder if they were worse than she’d suspected.

Finley carefully slipped out of Sister Nightingale’s grip and leaned against the table, ignoring the way it shuddered. “Well, then. If we’re to talk, let’s get on with it.”

“How can you…” Commander Rutherford shook his head, pacing a few steps away from her and then turning back. “Don’t act like this is some burden to you. We’re here _because_ of you.”

“Hardly.”

“Excuse me?” He furrowed his brow, incredulity clear on his face. “I’m not the one who stole from someone I’m supposed to be working with. I’m not the one who knocked out my own subordinates!”

Finley took a step closer to Sister Nightingale. “I had my reasons.”

“Had your reasons?” The commander shook his head. “By all means, enlighten us.”  

“What choice did I have? _You_ wouldn’t let _me_ talk to him.” Finley stood up straighter, squaring her shoulders. “You’ve had a week with him, and you’ve learned nothing.” He didn’t respond. “I had five minutes, and I know he’s taking red lyrium.”

Commander Rutherford’s gaze narrowed. However, Sister Nightingale swept forward so that she was standing between the two, her posture still casual. Finley caught the glint of a dagger handle on her hip. “He was willing to speak with you?”

“He’d started,” Finley argued, allowing her gaze to flit between the two. She settled on the sister—Leliana when it seemed clear that the commander wasn’t going to dive around their mediator to attack her. “He believed me when I said I didn’t want to see him hurt.”

“You told him—” Commander Rutherford cut himself off as Leliana shot him a sharp look. Instead, he turned away, running his hands down his face. “Of course you did.”

“Herald, if you would like to help us with the prisoner, then please speak with us before doing so,” Sister Nightingale said, looking back at her.

“Cassandra wouldn’t let me talk with him before,” Finley muttered. “Not alone, anyway.”

“We wouldn’t have, either,” Commander Rutherford hissed.

“Which is why I did what I did,” she snapped back. “You’re so bound with your world’s rules and…” She trailed off, strangling a scream in her throat, throwing her hands up in the air and beginning to pace along the side of the war table. “He was talking to me. About red lyrium,” Finley stressed, shaking her head as she looked back at the commander. “You’re not going to get anything from him by threatening him.” She looked toward the floor. “The red lyrium…I think it’s a death sentence. He knows it. So he knows there’s no point in talking to you. You can’t do any worse than what he’s going to face anyway.”

“And just how much did you tell him to get that… It’s not even information, is it? You’ve assumed things from a frown or…slouch. You’re letting him play you.” Commander Rutherford started forward. Leliana held a hand out to stop him from moving past her.

She crossed her arms again when she was sure he wouldn’t move closer to Finley. “Cullen is right, Herald. You are inexperienced with interrogation. Whatever you think you’ve gotten from him, you likely gave him far more. He knows that we are divided in regards to his treatment now, which gives him strength in keeping his mouth shut. If nothing else, he knows that each injury inflicted upon him will further the rift between the Inquisition’s leaders.”

“So what _did_ you tell him?” Commander Rutherford asked again. Both of his hands rested on the hilt of his blade. Even out of his armor, he still had that damned sword with him. “Other than you didn’t want him to be hurt.”

“He didn’t think we were on opposing sides until you stormed in,” she muttered. It wasn’t entirely true, but Commander Rutherford had put on quite a show.

“Maker, help me.” The commander closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Leliana was watching him, gaze narrowed. His shoulders slumped for a second before he regained his control. “The bastard’s probably still laughing at us.”

Their spymaster reached up, lightly massaging one of her temples. “If the two of you must have your little spats, then by all means. But you realize that the _both_ of you have made _my_ job harder with your antics tonight, yes?”

“I didn’t—”

She glared at him. “If you actually ran down there and made a scene in front of our prisoner, then yes, you did.”

“There was no need for such anger, anyway,” Finley muttered, glaring his way.

Her words were kindle to his low burning rage, causing it to burst out again, his eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. “You unbelievable—” He somehow managed to stop himself. He stood there, breathing heavily, eyes wide, locked on her.

“You said it yourself, you wouldn’t have let me talk to him. I did what I had to so that I could.” She paused before adding. “I would have brought the keys back.”

“I felt guilty,” Commander Rutherford snapped, his voice a bark. “I felt guilty for not being able to get through to him, despite trying for a week. I felt guilty for having to even tell you we were going to hurt him. I felt guilty for giving you that burden to share with us, and you were _using_ me.” He began to pace behind Sister Nightingale again, throwing dark glares her way. “Using my guilt.” He stopped, on the spymaster’s other side. “It makes me wonder what else you’re lying about, how else you’re willing to manipulate us and to what ends. How can we trust you when you go behind our backs?”

Finley stiffened. She didn’t know what to say to that.

It was such a logic jump to assume if she would lie about this, she would lie about other things. How had she not considered that?

She’d been too caught up with what red lyrium could be, with trying to find out what was wrong with it.

She felt like something was twisting knots in her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

What if he figured out she could do more than heal? What if he figured out there were others in the Wilds? He was too sharp.

Commander Rutherford continued to rant, though his words were little more than a steady drum of background noise.

Finley didn’t know what to do, what to say. She couldn’t breathe. They were going to figure everything out. Spots spilled forth across her vision, the world teetering slightly. Reaching out, she caught herself on the edge of the table, trying to keep herself upright as the world bucked and reeled. 

“Commander,” Leliana snapped, though her voice sounded like it was coming from down a long hallway.

Finley could smell the ash, taste the disgusting smell in her mouth. But she didn’t hear the crunch of charred remains beneath her boots. Instead, she could hear the frantic, terrified chirps of injured birds. They drowned out the sister’s words as she spoke to Finley, hands outstretched. Her knees smacked hard against the floor.

Just like then, she and her friends were going to die because she’d been out of line.

They were crying. Crying, crying, crying.

Her world went white.

She drifted, empty.

The song birds cried. She could feel their matted feathers against her fingers, covered in dirt.

_This is your fault. If you’d just done as you were told…_


	21. Hard Feelings

“Welcome back.”

Leliana’s voice was soft, but in the late night, Cullen could hear it from where he was standing in the Chantry’s main hall. He’d spent the last fifteen minutes glaring at the wall, arms crossed, feet planted firmly on the ground.

The door to the war room was open, and the light from a single candle flickered into the hall, casting soft shades and long shadows. He started to walk back toward the room, intent on squaring things away, but stopped just short of the doorway when he heard the Herald.

“I…” Her voice was resigned, miserable. That hadn’t been what he’d wanted. He’d just wanted her to understand that they were supposed to be a team. They were supposed to be working together. He wanted to know what he’d done that had made her mistrust him so, _use_ him so. Was it just because he’d been a templar? Was it something more? “I’m sorry.”

“You mostly torment our dear commander, really,” Leliana laughed gently, her voice kind. He saw her glance at him from where she sat, just close enough to the door to peer out. Though she clearly saw him, she gave no hint of it as she turned her attention to the Herald. “Josie and I were wondering when you’d get to us.”

“I’m not that bad,” the Herald protested, only to stop short on the last word. A silence followed before she whispered, softer, “Am I?”

Cullen paced closer to the door, leaning just out of the candle light against the same wall where she rested on the other side. Leliana had shooed him away when the Herald had collapsed, helping the woman to the wall and telling him to get some air. His hands rested on the familiar curve of the pommel of his blade. He hadn’t gotten far.

“A little childish sometimes, certainly, but I suspect you did not have many people to deal with in the Wilds.”

He could hear shuffling as she moved about on the other side of the wall. “It is much quieter out there.”

He felt a pang of guilt for the harsh words he had thrown at her, even if he half thought she hadn’t heard most of it. She’d seemed to lose focus shortly after he’d started accusing her of betrayal.

He’d been so angry. She was undermining him, _again_. And worse, she’d played on his emotions. She’d cozied up to him, visiting him in his personal quarters, only to trick him.

His head ached.

“And full of bears, according to Varric,” Leliana added. That drew Cullen out of his thoughts, mollifying the pain in his head for a little while. He rolled his eyes as he remembered the report the dwarf had handed him, insisting it was of the utmost importance. It had been one of the stupidest things he’d ever read, so naturally he’d shared it with Leliana and Josephine. “He submitted his own special report to tell us how you wooed a rampaging bear to save Cassandra from having to fight it barehanded.”

They’d all agreed not to tell Cassandra about that.

“There were no bears.”

Leliana laughed. “Josie will be disappointed to hear that.”

The Herald let out a deep sigh.

She was maddening, but her heart was in the right place. That was partially why it was so much worse. He knew that she was trying to help, and fumbling brilliantly. If they were just simple townsfolk, her efforts might almost be endearing.

But they weren’t. They were the leaders of the Inquisition, and the world’s safety fell to them. They couldn’t afford more of these blunders.

Cullen quietly tapped his fingers against his hilt, considering that perhaps if he sat her down and explained everything that went into his and the others’ jobs, she might not wreak nearly as much havoc. After all, half the people in the Inquisition didn’t understand what the title ‘commander’ fully entailed, so how could he expect some wilds apostate to know what she was interfering with?

“I want to…I don’t know how to do this,” she murmured, drawing him from his thoughts again. “I just think…I’ve known plenty who would rather die than actually give up information. Who _have_ died rather than do so. Torture and threats don’t work as well as you think.”

He closed his eyes. He’d figured that she hadn’t been completely alone out in the Wilds. Depending on where, she’d likely lived near the Avvar or perhaps even a Chasind clan—though the Chasind were much more afraid of magic than the Avvar were.

More than that, though, he knew that people often sought kindred spirits. He and damned near everyone else had figured that she’d likely known other mages out there. The way she refused to talk about certain subjects had made it glaringly obvious, and while he’d mostly dealt with Circle mages, he had interacted with enough apostates to know just how neurotic they could be if they thought their secrets were unraveling.

That was why he’d let her keep hers. No need to get her guard back up when she was just beginning to lower it.

Not that his tiptoeing had done any good.

They were right back where they’d started with her. She was going to be skittish around them again.

Was it a fear that they’d hunt her fellow apostates down that made her so cautious, that kept her from trusting the rest of them?

Was that why she was so intent on keeping him at a distance? Of keeping all of them that way?

With her professing she wanted a fresh start, seeming to really step up, and then coming to him to ask for his help… He wasn’t sure why it had meant as much to him as it had.

And then, just as he’d been drifting to sleep, his hand had brushed against his pocket, where his keys should have been, as he realized he hadn’t put them away yet. And they’d been gone. He’d known exactly who had taken them, and figured out what she was likely up to as well, though he’d prayed it wasn’t the case.

And then he’d seen the unconscious guards.

Maker, didn’t she know what a templar could _actually_ do to her? She said she’d dealt with templars before, but…

If their prisoner had gotten loose, he could have…

They needed the mark. That was why he’d been worried.

Even as he thought that, he wasn’t sure why it felt like a lie.

“You have a gentle spirit, Finley,” Leliana was saying, “But compassion can only go so far. I think it is likely as Cullen said. That templar was not going to give you anything useful.”

“I guess we won’t know,” she whispered. Another silence. “I thought…if I could find things out, bring you the information, it would be okay. He might be a little angry, but the good would outweigh the bad.”

“Why did you not talk to us, though?”

She was quiet for a time. “Cassandra would not let me be alone with him. She said I was too important. But…” The rustling of clothes interrupted her as she shifted position. “I don’t want to be important.”

Cullen’s shoulders slumped. Even as he looked away, toward the side where shadows clung to the corners of the hall, she began to speak again, recapturing his attention.

“Do you think Commander Rutherford will believe me if I apologize? I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I just… I thought I could get what I needed and have his keys back to him by morning, along with answers.”

“He will, but give him some time before you go to see him. He was very worried about you, after all.”

“I was no—” Cullen objected, cutting himself off as he stepped back through the doorway, mouth twisting into a scowl. Leliana smirked up at him, mischief in her eyes. He crossed his arms, glaring out into the main hall. “We can’t afford to let the Herald get herself killed when she’s the one with the mark.”

The Herald was sitting against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest as she picked at one of her pant-legs. She made no attempt to move, watching her feet as though expecting that he might pick up their argument where it had been dropped.

More guilt.

“Now, can I go get some sleep and trust that the two of you will head to your quarters as well?” Leliana rose to her feet, offering the Herald a hand. She stood up without any assistance. “Or do you intend to resume your fight as soon as I’m gone?”

When neither of them made an effort to respond, instead both simply looking exhausted, Leliana’s lips quirked into a smile. “Good.” She nodded to each of them, pausing when she inspected Finley again. “Would you like me to walk you to your room?”

“I’ll be fine.”

With that, Leliana swept out into the Chantry hall and was gone. It was eerie how quietly that woman could move, even when she was in her night clothes—he’d woken her up when he’d gone searching for another set of keys to the dungeon.

Finley slipped up to the door, sliding past him carefully, making sure not to get close enough to accidentally bump into him. He sighed. “Herald.” She stilled, finally daring a glance up at him. No doubt she was embarrassed to have confessed what she had when he was in earshot. He shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. “I didn’t hurt your arm, did I?”

“I’m fine,” she wiggled her fingers. “Healer, remember?”

He frowned. “So I did hurt you?”

“What?” She scrunched her brow together. “No. You…I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

He scratched the back of his neck, moving to extinguish the candle before following her out of the war room and locking it behind him. When he turned to go, it was in time to see her dropping down from the rafters near the door and pulling her shoes on.

Andraste’s grace….

Eyeing her, he began to walk toward the exit, taking in a slow breath when she waited for him.

“Did I really make it worse? With that templar?”

“You…” Cullen rolled his shoulders, slowly. “Yes. We both did.”

“I gave him numbing herbs. For the pain from the lyrium.”

“You—Maker.” Cullen stopped, running his hands down his face. He held his hands there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as he willed himself not to start yelling again. It wouldn’t do any good. “Did you do anything else?”

“I told him you had me in a dungeon, too.”

He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut harder until he could see little stars dancing behind his eyelids. His head hurt.

“And I told him that if he cooperated with us we’d let him go.”

He drew his hands down against his skin slowly, opening his eyes to stare at her when his fingers had reached his cheeks. “Anything else?” His question was slightly muffled by his hands.

“I don’t think so.” She twisted the hem of her sleeve, looking at the floor.

He closed his eyes again, taking in a few deep breaths. “I expect you want me to tell this to Leliana? As she’ll be the one who needs to know?”

Even in the dim light, he could see her pale, making her freckles stand out. She snapped her head up, looking toward the Chantry’s entrance and then back at him. “I’ll tell her. I wasn’t…I’m sorry.”

“Next time you want to do something like this, talk to us first. It will save everyone a lot of time and headaches.” He stepped forward slowly and put his hands on her shoulders. “I know you’ve been told before, but we must appear unified.”

She nodded, though her expression was impossible to read. She swallowed her pride, with some difficulty. “As you say, commander.”

He patted her shoulder. “Let’s get some sleep.”


	22. Seeing Red

“Catch!”

Finley jumped as a bread roll nearly smacked her in the face. She barely managed to catch it in time, and as she did, laughter met her startled expression.

“Nice catch, that. Thought it might go tits up, with you off in dream land.” Sera plopped down on top of the stone wall Finley had seated herself on, crossing her legs and biting into her own bread as she looked out over Haven. “That is where you mageys go when you drift off, right?”

“We have to be asleep or have a ridiculous amount of lyrium to do so.” Finley sighed. She idly tossed the bread roll from one hand to another.

“You’re still pissy about Mr. Won’t Talk, aren’t you? He’s got his tongue. His choice to use it or not.”

She leaned toward her. “I just wish things had gone differently.”

“So what’re you on about exactly?” When Finley didn’t answer, Sera took another bite of bread, wagging her finger at Finley. “He’s a man who chose to try to kill us. Makes him a baddie in my book.” She popped the rest of her bread into her mouth, chewing loudly for a moment before swallowing. As she finished, she sucked the butter off each of her fingers. “And _we_ fill baddies with arrows and pointy things.”

“I understand that we can’t just let our enemies leave. It’s just….”

Sera’s brow pinched together, and she glared at Finley. She held her arms out. “You’ve got this real complex, you know that? Like, who died and traumatized you beyond all reason?” As soon as she said that, her eyes went wide. “Shite, arse frig. Sorry.” She motioned toward Finley and then the Breach. “You’re all normal, people-y like, so sometimes I forget you were in that shite.”

Staring up at the green swirling hole in the sky, Finley finally took a bite from her bread roll. Maybe if Leliana got the where and the who from that templar, that would lead them to the what and the how. Or she could always take up hunting templars to find another who might be more interested in sharing.

Ha. Like that would ever happen.

How would one even go about hunting a hunter? Dangle a fellow mage as bait?

That seemed rather heartless.

Sera was staring at her, waiting for a response. “I suppose I just need to learn to trust, hmm? Trust that the people around me are doing what they have to.”

“Eh, trust is good. Tough skin is better,” Sera shrugged. “You trust the wrong people, you get shanked. You focus on being tough, and their sharp bits don’t tear through you so bad. And sometimes you even see it coming.”

“But see, for that, I’ve always found,” Finley grinned when Sera arched her eyebrows skeptically for what was to come, “if you keep them far enough away, they can’t put their ‘sharp bits’ in you to begin with.”

“No good to have a leader who always runs from stuff, though. You’re an important people now. You gotta stand your ground so that the others can be safe behind you, yeah?”

“Well, you’ll just have to watch my back, keep me from running,” Finley offered, finishing her roll. Even as she stretched her arms up over her head, Sera smirked.

“I think I can manage that.”

“Herald,” a man’s voice came from the base of the wall.

As Sera scowled down at him, Finley tried to rein in her grin. She looked down at him, brow arching in an attempt at seriousness. “Yes?”

“Commander Rutherford requests your presence at the Chantry, Your Worship.”

“Now?”

“Yes, ser.”

Finley slumped her shoulders, running a hand through her long bangs and over her hair, tousling it. It fell haphazardly around her face as she let her hand slide back down. “Sorry, Sera—”

Holding up her hands, the elf made a shooing motion. “I know you’ve got your Herald-y things to tend to. Have fun. Just make sure you call for me if you go to save the world.” Even as Finley hopped down from the wall and landed next to the messenger, Sera added, “Oh, and Your Ladybits? Thick skin.”

It was a short walk to the Chantry. A few people had waved to her, a few bowed. It was such a typical day, as though she hadn’t royally pissed the commander off, again. Though…they were friends again now, weren’t they? It was hard to keep track.

It was probably harder for him.

Leliana was the one to meet her in the main hall, rather than Commander Rutherford. She figured it was for the best. She’d probably manage to do something to ruin their tenuous friendship all over again within a minute of seeing him. That seemed to be her luck, her nature.

She did like him more than before, though. He’d let himself get angry, let his perfect control slip, if only for a few minutes.

And angry as he was, he hadn’t made any attempt to hurt her. He’d even fretted about the possibility of doing so.

It had been nice to see that there was a human man beneath all that armor and stern, dutiful demeanor. 

So engrossed in her thoughts was she that Finley hadn’t even noticed when Leliana had led her to the back of the Chantry and down to the dungeon until she was standing in front of an already pacing commander.

He was already agitated, and she abruptly worried that it was because he’d had time to really think about what she’d done the night before. It was easy to forgive in a moment of compassion, only to realize the depth of a betrayal later, too late to demand a better apology.

He paused when he saw her, his expression softening ever so slightly. “Are you alright, Herald? You look a little pale.”

“I am always a little pale, Commander,” Finley replied curtly, glancing to Leliana and then looking around the room. “You needed me?”

His frown returned twice over. “It would appear that…our situation has gotten complicated and—”

“Our prisoner has said he will speak with you and only you,” Leliana interrupted, rolling her eyes at the way Commander Rutherford had attempted to dance around the explanation. She motioned down the hall behind the commander. “He told us this morning and has not said another word since.”

“It looks like you’ll have your way, after all,” Commander Rutherford added. She couldn’t tell if he was bitter or trying to make a joke. “Just…try to be careful. I don’t trust him.”

“Nor do I,” Leliana murmured. “He’s different from before. Too calm. It’s like he’s planning a trap.”

“A trap with no weapons,” their commander said, shifting his weight slightly. “We’ve looked him over twice. Keep out of reach, regardless.” He appraised Finley with a critical eye. “If you don’t wish to speak with him, we would not fault you.”

“I will,” she replied almost instantly. Perhaps all was not lost after all. If he understood that she wanted to fix whatever it was about red lyrium that made it wrong, maybe he’d be willing…

She felt a twist in her gut.

What if it _was_ a trap, though? Templars were tricky.

But if he had no weapons, all he could use against her were spell interrupts and stuns, and those were useless so long as she didn’t channel any magic.

With a sigh, Commander Rutherford turned and led the way down the hall, his boots clacking against the stone in a reassuring rhythm. Leliana followed silent behind Finley, her own shoes making soft scuffing noises as she walked.

It felt like it took ages longer to reach the man’s cell than it had the night before. He sat the same as he had been when she’d been escorted away, though when the commander ordered the door opened, he peeked one eye open. A slow grin spread across his lips.

“I see you got permission this time,” he paused, taking in Commander Rutherford’s scowl before arching his eyebrows. The commander stood just at the door, angling his body so that he blocked half of the entrance, almost as though he would, even now, change his mind and tell Finley to go back upstairs.

Leliana gave her a short nod, and Finley slipped past their commander. He caught the back of her shirt before she could step too far into the room, not about to risk her forgetting his words of keeping out of reach.

Like she hadn’t had to deal with templars her whole life.

“Curious.”

Tilting her head, Finley motioned to the templar, who had spoken. “What is?”

“You are a wilds’ witch, are you not?” The templar sat up a little, eyeing them. “How can you stand the short leash he keeps you on?”

“Well, I’ve never been called a witch before,” Finley replied briskly, crossing her arms. “I’m but a simple apostate who lives in the woods. If there are witches, I’ve been fortunate enough to have never had any run ins with them.” She could swear she heard a sigh of relief from the Commander behind her.

…Had they thought she was a witch after all?

They’d never asked.

Though Leliana’s questions about her magic did seem to make a little more sense, when framed with that mindset. Hadn’t she done everything to make sure that they thought her a weakling beyond her healing magic—which hadn’t been particularly strong in the beginning and still had plenty of room for improvement.

“Still, it must be hard. Your wings clipped, as they are.” He smiled when he heard Commander Rutherford grind his teeth.

“He’s not going to say anything worthwhile,” he snapped, pulling her back a step. “I knew this was a waste.”

“I’ll tell her what I can,” the man replied, blinking up at them, most innocently. He lifted a hand to point at Commander Rutherford, Leliana, and the two guards who had been by his cell. “But not you.”

Commander Rutherford’s grip tightened on the back of her shirt. “We’re leaving.”

“Let me talk to him,” Finley protested, looking over her shoulder at the commander, eyes pleading.

His brow furrowed; his face grew harsh. Leliana coughed softly, though she made no move to intervene. Closing his eyes, he took in a slow breath and then let go of her. As he turned, he stopped so that he was partially between her and their prisoner, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “You do not leave the doorway, and Maker’s mercy, no magic. Not for anything. He may be shackled, but he’s still a templar.”

He hovered another moment before sweeping out of the cell and down the hall.

None of them went far. The two guards stepped further down, about a cell’s distance away. Leliana and Commander Rutherford went back toward the entrance to the dungeon, allotting the same space, all four ready to charge back in a moment’s notice.

The man reached up, scratching at his stomach underneath his shirt as best he could in his shackles. When he saw her watching him, he laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to make me more comfortable.” He paused, reaching up to pull a small leaf out of his mouth. It was well chewed. He popped it back in, grinning with it between his teeth before he started chewing on it again. “Thank you for that. It’s helped a lot more than you know.”

Finley knelt down. She heard a scrape of a boot and then a soft curse. Both she and the templar seemed to wait to see if her keeper would come to sweep her away again. When he didn’t, she motioned toward the templar. “The red lyrium causes pain?”

“All lyrium causes pain,” he murmured. “This one’s is sharper, but…it’s stronger. We’re stronger.”

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

He blinked, surprised. “You have to know, don’t you?” When she merely knit her brow together, shaking her head slightly, he motioned around as well as he could, chained to the wall. “This world is drowning. Magic is…rampant.” He paused, inspecting her. “It would be one thing if that were the only problem, but there’s so much wrong. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? They say you traveled.”

Images of mages and templars fighting rose to mind. She could see burnt out houses, damaged buildings, magic-torn landscapes.

“The Elder One will make this all better,” he whispered, leaning toward her a little. “When I first heard of you, of what you did to him, I…we all thought you must be one of them.”

She blinked, confused. Did what to who? The blank space in her memories beckoned, its emptiness taunting her. “One of who?”

He shrugged, glancing around again. “One of the many who make this world sick.” He leaned back against the wall, scratching under his shirt again. “In a way, you are, though I don’t think that’s your fault. You try to be good. It must be hard with that poison in your blood.”

She didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. “I’ve never believed in using magic to hurt others.” She hesitated, leaning forward a little. “If you haven’t taken much of the red lyrium, maybe I can help you. Your friend was too far gone, but maybe there’s something I can do for you, if you give me time.”

“I don’t have time,” he shrugged. He bit down harder on the leaf in his mouth. Its effects had to be fading. He noticed her expression and gave her a crooked grin. “They took the rest of them.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “I believe you. That’s why…” He winced, his hand under his shirt clutching into him as he doubled forward.

No, no, no. He was talking to her. She was so close to finding out more about the red lyrium. He couldn’t die now…

She didn’t think. She moved forward just enough to see what was hurting him. It was too late that she saw his own fingers tearing into his skin and muscle, pulling something hard and red out of his own flesh. The metal in the shackles strained. He tried to catch one of her hands as he swung the object toward her.

She dodged backwards, throwing herself to her feet and yanking her right arm back in such a way that his fingers barely brushed her skin. His lyrium shard, however, dug into her left arm and down. No doubt he’d been aiming for her body.

Her back hit the bars, her eyes wide.

“You’re too kind.” He pleaded with her, struggling against his chains, trying to reach her, even as blood poured out of his wound. The chains strained, cracks forming in them. He was going to break them. “The Elder One would do things to you that would twist that gentle heart of yours into something terrible!” There was sympathy in his eyes. “Let me spare you his wrath!”

He was completely mad.

Before he’d even finished talking, Commander Rutherford was charging into the cell, sword drawn. The templar screamed, the action twisting his face into something completely inhuman. One of the shackles tore from the wall. The commander caught the chain around his left arm and swung his blade quickly, sinking his sword deep into the man’s neck.

As Commander Rutherford cursed, dropping his sword and moving to untangle himself from the heavy iron wrapped around him, he grew still, something on the floor having caught his attention.

Finley tried to heal him, only to feel a strange, sharp ache pulse through her, emanating from her left forearm. She blinked, looking down. Her mark was gleaming brilliantly, crackling with its eerie energy as blood dripped quickly off her arm. However, that wasn’t what drew her attention, but rather the bright red veins already stark against her skin, emanating out from her cut. When she tried to heal herself, they extended, a new wave of pain sweeping through her.

She blinked, everything suddenly feeling oddly disconnected. The world was heavy, muddy.

Looking up, brow half furrowed as she tried to keep her thoughts coherent, she saw Leliana smack something out of Commander Rutherford’s hand. He whirled on her, a snarl on his lips. Leliana hit him hard in the back of the neck. He fell.

Was this a dream?

Perhaps she was dancing in the Fade, yet to wake up. Stranger things happened in dreams.

Perhaps the Conclave had never happened.

Was someone…singing?

No.

No. That wasn’t a song.

It was mad whispers, like demons.

No, not demons. She wasn’t casting, so she knew that it couldn’t be them. They were like templars. They couldn’t reach her so long as she wasn’t using magic. And there were no promises in these whispers. It was just…anger. Unbridled rage that made her feel like she could bend an iron bar in half if she so wanted. She half wanted to try.

The guards were dragging a limp Commander Rutherford from the room, his arms braced over their shoulders.

She blinked, looking up when she realized that Leliana was standing in front of her. She was speaking, but the whispers were too loud, and Finley couldn’t understand her. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on her mouth, the way her lips curved to form her words.

She didn’t recognize any of them.

Her eyes widened.

She looked back down at her arm.

The mark was burning so brilliantly. Green against red.

Pain shot through her veins, and crimson clouded her vision. She thought she felt someone’s arms wrapping around her, but she couldn’t for the life of her think of who would be there. The whispers were so loud, but they didn’t have bodies, so it couldn’t be them.

Was that why they were so angry?

Darkness finally bled through the red haze and overtook everything.


	23. Reassurance

Cassandra took in a deep breath as she knocked on Cullen’s door and then stepped in. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, a fresh pair of trousers and undershirt on, staring down at his right palm.

“It is good to see you up. Leliana worried she hit your pressure point too hard.”

He snapped his head up, eyes wide, wild. He took in a few deep breaths, steadying himself, before he seemed to realize that she’d even spoken. He pressed his palms over his eyelids. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Straightening up, Cassandra pressed a hand against the hilt of her sword, where it hung on her hip, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Your withdrawal is bound to put you through some rough days—”

“It’s the red lyrium. I can’t…” He took in another breath, holding it, and then exhaling shakily. “I’ve never heard the song so loud. I wasn’t even taking it. I never…even actually touched it.” He pulled his right hand away, staring at it with a mixture of awe and horror. “I could feel it _through_ my glove.”

Cassandra frowned. She had already been filled in on what had happened. Their prisoner had been infected with red lyrium, like the other templar they’d fought. The lyrium had just begun to crystalize inside of him, and he’d taken advantage of the numbing herbs Finley had been foolish enough to give him to dig it out of his own body to use as a weapon.

“Leliana’s people are cleaning up the mess. We will keep all templars out of the chantry until the red lyrium can be removed.”

“But there’s more,” Cullen gasped, looking up at her again. The usual circles under his eyes were so dark it looked as though someone had punched him. His hands shook. “There’s red lyrium up at the temple. Reports say it’s showing up in more and more places.” He let his hands fall limp, his elbows resting on his legs. “The song was so…much more than I remember. It made the pain disappear.”

Walking across the floor with measured steps, Cassandra sat beside him, pausing only to adjust her sword as she settled in. They sat in silence a moment as she considered patting him on the shoulder. It seemed too condescending an action, so she kept her hands to herself.

Leliana had told her everything. They’d stupidly let the Herald talk to the prisoner alone. He’d feigned injury—or rather revealed it—to lure her in, and had then attacked her, using red lyrium from his own body. The second Finley had disappeared from view completely, Cullen had bolted forward, sword drawn. He’d killed the templar, but had frozen before he could tend to the Herald.

The red lyrium had called to him and he’d been helpless, staring at the shard on the ground and then picking it up. One of the guards said he’d started whispering something that they couldn’t quite catch. The bits they had managed to make out had made no sense.

Leliana had knocked it out of his hand, and he’d turned on her. If he hadn’t already dropped his sword and broken his left arm catching the shackle’s chain, Cassandra loathed to think of how differently the scene might have played out. After knocking him out, Leliana had ordered the guards to take him out of the dungeon, to get him away from the lyrium and its hold on him.

One of the healers from the infirmary had come by to tend to his arm. Just fractures, they’d said. Solas had come by next, his spells undoing the damage. He’d said that Finley’s wound wasn’t responding to magic just yet, and Adan was washing it out.

It turned out that a piece of the red lyrium shard had broken off in Finley’s arm. Adan had managed to get it out, but it had taken washing the wound out five more times before any magic had worked on the injury.

In that time, she’d slipped in and out of consciousness, whispering madly to anyone close enough to hear and begging them to make the others quiet down. Solas had claimed she wasn’t talking of demons, but Adan had needed to step out after that.

Sera and Varric had gone to help Solas, though they’d both been equally horrified by the condition of their herald. Varric said it was similar to what had happened to his brother and Kirkwall’s knight-commander.

Sera had screamed at them that if red lyrium started growing in Finley, she’d murder someone. Varric had taken her out to get some fresh air, and she’d bolted to the tavern, drowning herself to forget. Varric had stayed with her to make sure she didn’t go too far.

It had been a rough two days, with both herald and commander out for the count.

“Solas said the red lyrium wasn’t in her long enough to infect her,” Cassandra finally offered. In truth, he’d said that he thought part of why she wasn’t dead was actually the mark. The red lyrium seemed to be anti-magic, and the mark…it was strong magic. Strong enough to overpower the red lyrium. “Thanks to you, of course.”

“Two things! All she had to do were two things!” Cullen swore, bowing his head and gripping his hair. “Don’t cast and don’t get close to him! Two things!”

“What matters is that both of you are recovering,” Cassandra murmured, not sure what else to say.

“Two things…” Cullen whispered again. He clenched his fingers harder. “The song was so loud.” The skin around his lips looked almost green, as though he might throw up at any moment. “If she dies, it’s my fault.”

“It is not,” Cassandra snapped, rising to her feet. “It will take some time for her to mend, but that is her own doing, not yours.”

“We knew it was a trap. Leliana and I both knew something was wrong.” He shook his head. “We checked him for weapons, twice. But he didn’t…how could we have known he be growing it _in_ him?” He abruptly straightened up and stared down at himself, paling. “Do you think regular lyrium does the same…?”

“There are no records of such madness ever happening.” Cassandra knelt in front of him, leaning forward to catch his gaze and holding it. “Cullen. You will be fine. She will be fine. We need our commander.”

“I—” He closed his eyes, hanging his head in shame. He took one breath. Then another. Another. He opened his eyes and met her gaze, his regular determination slowly flickering back to life. “As you say, Seeker.”

As he rose to his feet, she stood as well, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. “I have handled what I could, but there are some matters which require your attention. Do not push yourself too hard, though.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, turning to equip his armor. “Thank you.”

“And we’ll send someone to inform you when she wakes up.” Cassandra paused in his door before she left, narrowing her eyes at him. “You can do this, Cullen. Believe in yourself.”


	24. Sleeping Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to creepypasta-queen- for beta reading for me!

Her first thought was that she needed to make sure Leliana knew about the Elder One. She didn’t know who he was or what she’d apparently done to him, but perhaps there had been some sort of rumor going around that they hadn’t paid particular attention to because they were so focused on the Conclave.

Or maybe they had, and this would help them by focusing their search, dropping other, pointless leads to track the one. Plus, the things their prisoner had said had sounded pretty cultish, and like there would be more infected templars.

Her second thought was ow.

A hand pressed down on her shoulder, gentle but firm, as she tried to sit up. She blinked slowly, staring up at an all too familiar wooden ceiling. How many times had she woken up to see those particular knots in the wood, to see the way the grain wound around itself, dark and light?

Too many.

“Now, now, dear. You need your rest. It wouldn’t do to have you staggering through Haven like a drunkard. What would the people think?”

Instinctively, Finley’s right hand found its way to her left forearm, where pain throbbed in sharp then dull waves. There were bandages there. Even as she wondered why Solas hadn’t just healed her while she was out, she murmured a soft spell.

Nothing happened.

She furrowed her brow.

She tried again. Nothing.

Turning her head slowly, she felt oddly stiff everywhere. And muddled. And…just wrong in general.

Lady Vivienne sat beside her, a book in her lap, closed around her index finger to mark her page. Her other hand still rested on Finley’s shoulder. Her eyes were kind, lower lids raised just enough to show warmth, without looking too concerned. Her lips curved in a practiced smile.

“I can’t use magic,” Finley murmured, relaxing against the bed. Her left arm hurt too much to move, so she simply brought her right up, running it through her hair. Her finger snagged and she blinked. Rather than her usual mess, her hair had been carefully brushed and wound into two braids. They were tighter than she usually did. Stiff little pieces of wood kept the hair along her hairline up, and she had the strange terror that she was turning into a common human.

Only her long bangs were free. She let her fingers trace over the wooden clip. She’d known what they were called once, though the name escaped her now.

She wasn’t in a dress, was she? She tried to lift her legs to get a clear view, but she’d been carefully tucked into blankets, and she couldn’t loosen them enough to slip out.

Lady Vivienne watched her until she’d settled back down, her expression remaining polite, yet unreadable. When Finley finally stopped moving, her smile faded slightly. An appropriate response to Finley’s earlier comment. “I’m afraid that the red lyrium seems to have a somewhat lasting effect. I doubt it will be permanent, but we shall certainly have to make sure to keep it away from other mages.”

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Finley held her left arm up, inspecting the neat bandages wrapping along almost the entire length of her forearm. “Solas couldn’t heal it?”

“It’s not as deep as it was,” Lady Vivienne stated. She reached out, carefully catching Finley’s hand and guiding her arm back down. “However, the sheer amount of magic he had to pour into it just to do what little he did…really he was just trying to make sure that magic _could_ be used on you. For about a day and a half, it seemed like your body might never accept magic near it again. The shard used to cut you broke in your arm and left a fragment.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Well, I find it hard to believe you would have reacted so strongly with all of it out. Likely some tiny piece ended up in your blood stream. Hence the magic lock now.”

A shiver trilled through her. She slid her arms under the blanket, suddenly thankful for it. Or rather, she started to. Her left arm hurt too much, and she let it lay where it was. The cold was sort of numbing, anyway.

Her mark tingled. It was lit, the magic in it crackling softly.

Even as she thought the sound oddly soothing, enough so that she might fall back to sleep to it, her eyes flew open. Gasping, she rocked up before her caretaker could stop her.

“The Elder One!” She motioned vaguely with her hands, pausing to wince when she turned her left arm wrong. She’d had some deep cuts in the past, but this one felt like it hurt more. Perhaps it was just because she normally healed her wounds within seconds of getting them.

Lady Vivienne was half out of her seat, one arm braced gently against Finley’s shoulder again, to make sure she didn’t make a run for the door. “My dear, please stay in bed. I would hate to have to freeze you in place. With the way Solas was talking, it would take my entire mana pool for it to be effective.”

Finley slowly slumped back into the bed, her energy leaving her just as quickly as it had come. Pain flared in her arm. “I need to speak with Leliana. I was able to get something from that templar before…” Everything was a red haze. She vaguely remembered being attacked, but even that was a blur.

Had red lyrium caused her initial memory loss when the Conclave was destroyed?

Lady Vivienne held up a single, slender finger, well-manicured nail pointed toward Finley. “Just a moment.” She stepped over to the doorway, opening it and lightly tapping a guard standing on duty outside.

A templar.

Finley narrowed her eyes. Was that one of ‘hers’? Ser…Yorric?

The man glanced over his shoulder, turning slightly. His gaze darted past the mage in front of him for a split second to see Finley staring at him, expression muddled as she tried to remember much of anything.

She wasn’t sure what Lady Vivienne said to recapture his attention, but when she did, he never took his eyes off of her until he turned and hurried off. The first enchanter closed the door, pausing briefly to nod to someone at the other side of the door—there had been _two_ guards?—and then walking back over to her seat.

With ease, she settled back in, resting her book in her lap and her hands on top of the book. “Ser Yorric will let Sister Nightingale know that you’re awake. I expect we’ll have company in a matter of moments.” She paused, noticing the way Finley flopped back down. “Unless you’re feeling too ill. I can relay the message for you.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think I’m that tired,” Finley murmured. The pillows and blankets did feel heavenly, though. She forced herself to sit up again, slowly. “And thank you for looking after me.” She idly picked at the edge of the bandage on her arm. “I know we haven’t gotten much time to talk before this.”

“I do apologize for not being able to travel with you before.” Lady Vivienne leapt at the opportunity, that practiced smile returning, her eyes cool, assuring. “I’ve managed to settle all the problems that arose with my leaving Val Royeaux, and will be able to fully commit to supporting the Inquisition.”

Finley couldn’t help a slight smile when the first enchanter reached out and lightly tugged her hand away from where she was already fraying her bandage. “I look forward to working with you, Lady Vivienne.”

“And I you, my dear.” She hesitated, and then added, “Perhaps we could take a look at those wards you mentioned in your letter? When your magic comes back to you, of course.”

“I could write them out and show you the spells before that, if it looks like it’ll take too long.” Finley offered. Unable to help herself, she brought her right hand up and tried to conjure even the simplest of spells. A spark of light flickered at her fingertip and then faded. Pain washed through her again.

But at least there had been a spark.

“I am curious, though,” Lady Vivienne said after a brief lapse into silence. “Whatever made you come up with wards for yourself?”

Finley stilled. Did Circle mages not do so? She’d sort of assumed that all mages knew such basic spells, that they would likely come to her telling her that they knew exactly how to cast the spells she sought, that poor little apostate that she was, how had she never learned this? If such magic _wasn’t_ common to them, would they want to know the history behind the spells they would be learning?

“Well, accidents happen in the woods, so many of the wards stem from things like getting caught near wild fires or lightning strikes, rare as the latter may be. And frost wards…it does get very cold in the winter.”

“You listed four in your request…I believe the last one was stone?” When Finley didn’t immediately respond, she shrugged lightly, “I can understand the rest, but that last one just seems odd, unless you were fighting against other mages out in your wilds.”

Had she actually mentioned her stone ward in her letter? Damn.

“About that,” Finley shrugged a little, feigning disappointment. “Every so often, a malificar gets it in their head that they can just flee into the woods and live out of reach of the templars. The templars usually catch them quickly, as they haven’t a clue how to deal with the wild creatures or Avvar and Chasind. However, every so often there’s one who’s just smart enough to slip deep enough into the Wilds that they cross into my home.” She absently reached to tug on her bandage again. It itched.

Itched and hurt.

Was this what people had to deal with when there was no magic to heal them? It was a wonder they weren’t all mad.

“So then a blood mage tried to turn you to stone?”

“Blood mages have tried to do a great deal to me,” Finley murmured, gaze un-focusing as she frowned. “I try to think ahead, and have wards against their devilry, as well.”

“Oh?” the first enchanter perked up, genuine curiosity half hidden behind her poised expression. She wore her mask well. “How do you mean? Wards against mind control and demonic possession?”

Before Finley could answer, the door to the small shack flung open, and Commander Rutherford practically sprinted inside, Cassandra on his heels, calling for him to slow down. He managed to catch himself a pace or two into the room, regaining his composure and typical, professional expression. The flush of his cheeks and wild curls poking up from his hair were the only proof of his earlier carelessness.

Lady Vivienne rose from her chair in a smooth gesture, pausing once to pat Finley’s hand. “We can speak more later. I would love to hear your views on magic and your experiences in the Wilds.”

Even as Finley nodded and thanked her again for sitting with her, Lady Vivienne swept out past the commander, giving him an elegant nod before disappearing out the door and into the cold. Cassandra waited until the first enchanter was outside to follow the commander in, stopping to stand behind the chair as he fell into it, leaning against his knees toward Finley.

“You are well, then?”

“Getting there,” Finley shrugged, drumming her fingers idly on her injured arm. Each tap brought a new wave of pain, but also a faint relief from it. Hadn’t Lady Vivienne told them to get Leliana? Not that she wasn’t glad to see these two, but… She was abruptly very tired and didn’t want to have to repeat her message over and over.

Commander Rutherford lightly took her hand in one of his, his other pushing her shoulder and guiding her to lie back on the bed. “You still need your rest.”

“Commander, I’ve outrun templars in worse states than this.” She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but there it was, with an eye roll to boot.

Cassandra let out a single, dry laugh. 

Finley let her gaze move back to the ceiling so that she didn’t have to look at their commander’s startled expression. “What I mean is, I’ll be fine.” She let her head drift sideways, toward the wall. She’d never really taken the time to look at it before. It wasn’t much more interesting than the ceiling.

“I’m just glad you’re awake,” he offered, gently clasping her hand with the mark. As the magic crackled within her palm, he let her go, instead, leaving his hand to rest just beside hers. “We were worried—”

“Solas told you a dozen times that she would be fine,” Cassandra clucked from behind him. When Finley looked back over at them, she saw that the commander was glaring up at Cassandra, and she had a small smirk as she leaned against the back of the chair. “We _are_ glad that you are recovering.”

She felt a little like she might drift off to sleep. Where was Leliana? Memories drifted lazily past her from that red haze, what their prisoner had told her. Perhaps she should just tell them while she was still awake. As she was, she felt like she might sleep for a week if she let herself close her eyes for more than a second. As the memories played out in her head, she frowned, looking back at Commander Rutherford.

“You…they carried you out.”

He paled slightly and turned his head away as he mumbled. “I’m fine.” The circles under his eyes were darker.

“So I see we’re both a mess then,” Finley offered, starting to sit up again, and sighing when he pressed her shoulder back into the bed. “I should have listened to you.”

He blinked, surprised. Then, he frowned, though there was a small spark in his eyes. “Yes, you should have.”

“I’m sorry that you were hurt because I was careless,” she reached up and patted his hand, the metal parts on the back of his glove cool under her touch.

Commander Rutherford shook his head. “It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Finley insisted, slightly annoyed. Did he think her some child? Had he expected that without a proper hand holding, she was doomed to trip over her own feet and onto a sword?

“It was—”

“Maker, don’t,” Cassandra shook her head. “I do not think I can stand this circular of a conversation, much less the two of you.”

Finley glanced to the door. Someone had closed it behind Cassandra. Where was Leliana? “Listen, I…” she felt like she’d drift off as she stifled a yawn. Even as the commander offered that they should leave her, she held onto his hand on her shoulder. “He said there was an Elder One…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	25. Allies

There was going to be a scar on her arm, where the lyrium shard had dug into her. It went almost from wrist to elbow, and even now it seemed to have more of a reddish hue than pink. It was mostly closed, with a rather gruesome looking scab. Healing magic did little to fix it, and all the itching was driving Finley insane.

Finley had other scars, but most of them were in places easily hidden. One was along the right back of her neck, in her hairline, where a templar’s blade had nearly found its home. Another scar curved around her hip, another run in with a templar that she barely escaped. Her last two were a pair, one just below her left breast and the other slightly higher, just below her left shoulder blade. Of course, that had been a templar who had left them, as well. They were her oldest scars.

None of them were more than a few inches long.

She’d had a few other injuries throughout her life that should have warranted scars, but she’d been too prideful to keep them, instead spending empty nights idly pouring excessive amounts of magic into the injuries over and over until she couldn’t see the brands others had tried to leave her with.

The ones she’d kept were more as reminders. Or because she couldn’t see them well enough to heal them obsessively. It didn’t hurt that they weren’t easily seen, either. Her hair hid the one, and simple clothes hid the rest.

This scar on her arm would not be so easily ignored.

Magic flickered to life around her fingers, weaker than usual, but there, ready to do as it was bidden. She considered trying to help her injury along again, but something about that red lyrium had made it so difficult to heal.

At least her mark was quiet. So long as it didn’t act up, it was little more than an odd tingle, though when it started crackling, it had a tendency to shoot random spikes of pain through her.

It had been a week since she’d woken up after her attack. One horridly slow week that had threatened to drag on into eternity. During the days, she’d been watched over by either Solas, Adan, or Lady Vivienne. At night, Sera and Varric typically crashed with her, after a rather heated debate with Cassandra. The seeker had been on about Finley needing rest and likely not getting any with those two around.

However, they’d been as tortuously concerned as the rest of Haven, insisting she stay in bed, not wanting her to reopen her injury by walking around. It was on her damned arm. How did they expect her to tear it back open just by moving about a bit?

She’d had to give up that argument after accidentally knocking it against the side of the bed during an elaborate hand motion and reopening it.

Truly, if the Maker was real, he was a bastard.

She had managed to get them to bring her satchel to her, though Varric had insisted on going through it, rather than letting her dig around with her terrible, horrible gash that apparently rendered her a wee child incapable of the slightest task.

That sentiment had doubled when her friends had realized what she was retrieving from her belongings.

A children’s story book.

It was a small compilation of a dozen or so stories of heroes and dragons and the like. The pages were filled with knights, templars, and Grey Wardens. They were simple tales, with happy endings and a few illustrations that she absolutely adored.

Varric had crowed as he’d flipped through it, telling her he had some more grown up books, if she liked reading so much. _Her_ book had been read through, over and over.

When she was but a small girl, a kind man had written and drawn those stories for her, hoping to help her overcome the nightmares that had haunted her every time she closed her eyes for more than a breath.

It had been those stories that had helped her through so many ordeals, even after she’d taken refuge in the Wilds. It was her one possession that had existed before her apostate days.

That book had been part of why she’d been so desperate to get her belongings back. Truthfully, it had been the only reason, no matter what she told anyone, herself included.

And then she hadn’t read it once.

She’d been too afraid. Too afraid that whatever soothing magic was in those pages wouldn’t be able to banish the memories of the Conclave, that the stories would become just what they were, simple children’s tales that could not sweep away the cruelty of the adult world.

After losing her ability to cast, even only for a few days, she’d needed some type of magic in her life. Hence her return to the book.

She’d let the two read over her shoulders, curling up on the middle of the bed, the sheets a mess and looking more like a nest than a proper bed. Sera had rested her chin on Finley’s shoulder whilst they read, occasionally straightening up to cackle about how silly parts of the stories were or how someone had been drawn with a ridiculously big nose.

Varric had commented once or twice on word usage and how some of the stories had real potential to be expanded upon into full books.

It was the first time she’d shared the stories with anyone, since they’d been written for her, and it in itself had opened a whole new level of wonder to her. It was as though those simple stories had new life breathed into them, and before she knew it, she was sleeping better, healing more quickly.

She’d kept her book tucked out of sight from everyone else, though. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed proper to share such simple tales with Lady Vivienne or Solas. The three of them chatted about magic from time to time, with the two allowing their time watching her to overlap on occasion so that all three of them could debate the possibilities with her wards.

The first enchanter didn’t mention the stone ward again, and Finley couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Vivienne was waiting for her to bring it up first. She never knew when she ought to do things like that.

If she’d mentioned that ward in Solas’ note, he showed no interest, instead focusing on a fire ward, scrawling out theories and then scrapping them when he found a flaw in the spell that would make it unstable.

Each of them had learned their magic through different means, and they’d quickly become fascinated at how differently they composed their spells. While the Circle mages had always found ways to make their spells their own, they still adhered to strict guidelines, building them off of ages of accrued archaic magic, so Lady Vivienne’s magic had a strict order to it that Finley had never seen before.

Solas’ magic was different, wild and old. Finley had thought perhaps it was Dalish, but when Lady Vivienne had asked him, he’d shook his head and been disinterested in entertaining the topic further. Finley had been content to let him keep his secrets, as he’d always been so willing to let her keep hers.

They hadn’t found a way to improve her fire wards or allow her to cast them on others, but the two mages could cast the spell on themselves, and all three of them were working on deconstructing their own versions of the wards in such a way that would lead to progress in the future.

Working with others like this on magical theory had felt a bit like home. It had a soothing effect on both Solas and Lady Vivienne, as well, though she doubted either would admit it.

They might have made more progress if not for the constant procession of others poking their heads in to see that she was, in fact, alive and well. It was embarrassing to get so much attention. The blacksmith made a point of stopping by, promising to craft her some better armor. Mother Giselle came by to watch over her and talk quietly, always pleasant things, and never once did she push her beliefs in the Maker upon the conversation.

There were dozens of others who came by, including Krem and Bull. Those two had tried to bring her some ale, though the templars guarding her—the five she had recruited seemed to rotate out, always two of them present—had confiscated it. When Bull had asked her how she was doing and she’d whispered that she’d wanted to climb the walls, but didn’t out of a fear the templars would think her possessed, he’d laughed hard enough to make the walls shake. That night, as they’d figured out the guard shift, Krem had helped her sneak out while Bull distracted them with some tale of Seheron.

He’d met up with them moments later, and they’d gone for a casual stroll through the woods just outside of Haven. While they’d gotten her a nice thick cloak that would both hide her and keep her warm, the wind had been merciless. She’d welcomed the cold like an old friend to her hearth.

On their second expedition into the snowy lands beyond, Cassandra had found them.

None of the Chargers had been allowed to visit unsupervised after that.

Warden Blackwall had swung by a few times as well, bringing her a few simple flowers to brighten up the room and then taking his leave.

Josephine and Leliana had come by several nights, before her rogues came to stay, with updates about what was going on with the Inquisition and simple gossip. Cassandra joined them on one or two occasions, though she always scoffed and found a reason to leave when the conversation turned idle.

The Elder One lead hadn’t been much, but they had found several incidents where lyrium smugglers and traders had heard of him, heard of a new product that was making their buyers harder to come by. Further, the more they chased the secret, the more it seemed to lead back to the templars. Leliana wanted to reach out to the mages more than ever, thinking that if the templars were becoming this unstable, they wouldn’t make for good allies.

Josephine had her reservations about siding with the mages, not wanting to lose the favor of popular opinion that they were finally beginning to accumulate.

Finley wanted to know what it was about that red lyrium that was so familiar. If that meant at least finding and visiting the templars, then so be it. Surely she could gain an audience without completely cutting her chances of reaching out to the mages.

If it did, though…

Finley paced her room, sleeve pulled up past her elbow as she slowly bandaged her arm. Solas read, leaning against the wall beside the door. It was one of the first enchanter’s books on basic spell construction that she’d thought the two of them might find interesting. Finley thought it was a lot of excessive clauses, but Solas was more than willing to give it some consideration.

“You know, Herald,” he said, his voice low and calm, “if you studied this, you might be able to cast fire or frost yourself.”

“Why would I want to do that?” She scrunched her face up at the thought, winding the latest curl of bandage a bit too tight. A warning throb pulsed through her arm, and she backtracked, easing it up.

“I could do that for you, if you’d like.”

With a sigh, she shook her head, resuming the binding. “I appreciate it, truly, but if I have one more task taken from me to be done by another, I’ll scream.”

Solas allowed himself a fleeting smile. “It is not their intent to cage you.” He paused, considering it. “Though I suppose it must feel like one to you, none-the-less.”

“Do you ever feel trapped here?”

He lowered the book, resting it against his legs, open. As he considered it, he let his gaze wander toward the ceiling, no doubt being equally bored as she was by the annoyingly repetitive whorls in the grain overhead. “If I truly wished to leave, nothing could stop me, so no.”

She nodded. ‘Twas a respectable attitude. When she’d finished wrapping her arm, she tucked the bandage in and sighed, letting her arm swing down. The mere motion sent a shiver through her. “As my healer, when do you intend to release me from this horrid house arrest?”

“Any day now,” he replied, that polite smile coming into place. “In fact, you can have the rest of the day free. If you don’t collapse, I’ll consider you fit for field work.”

“I still can’t believe they _let_ me rest this long,” she muttered. She’d half expected them to be dragging her to her feet the morning after she’d woken up, ordering her out into the countryside to continue their quest to save the world.

“There are no easily reached rifts, and they’ve been mostly gathering information. There is not a lot for you to do at the moment. I would have thought you would be pleased to have a chance to breathe.”

She barely heard him, though. The second he’d told her that she was free to leave, she’d tugged her overcoat and gloves on, slid into a warm cloak, and twirled to the door, opening it and stepping out into the light as he finished talking. Ser Yorric and the female templar were on duty, and had been talking softly about something, both leaning against the wall on either side of the door.

Both started from their relaxed state as the wind sent ripples through her coat. She pointed over her shoulder. “I’ve permission, kind sers.” Solas laughed behind her, offering a quick confirmation as she trotted outside, relishing the feel of the wind wrapping around her, breezing through her clothes. It felt good to be wandering about again. So good, that she couldn’t even bring herself to mind having been watched by templars. She paused, offering her guards a flourished bow. “Thank you for your vigilance.”

And then she was off.

At first, she wasn’t sure where she would want to go other than anywhere that wasn’t her little shack, but then she remembered that in her week, there was one person who had never come by to visit, not after she’d first woken up. With purpose in her steps, she headed toward the training grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be out of town from the 16th, to the 23rd, so no updates next week. Chapter 26 will be up on the 25th!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	26. Moving Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to creepypasta-queen- for beta reading <3

Cassandra saw her coming before Cullen. She knew that steady trot, that flash of orange hair. That Ser Yorric and Ser Cadwin had allowed her to leave must have meant that Solas had given her back her freedom. While the five templars Finley had recruited had proved fiercely loyal to the Inquisition—they’d even brought in some more from their order into the fold, as time ticked forward—they were also still firm in their beliefs about upholding the purpose of the Templar Order.

With the Herald whispering about voices, minds had gone to demons, and so they had volunteered to watch over her, to make sure she did not become an abomination. Every day, they had stood guard, ignoring the skeptical looks that some of the followers had given them. Some had whispered that the templars were just looking for an excuse to slay a mage.

If they’d heard those rumors, they never said, never flinched.

Cassandra personally thought that they had stood guard because they were sure they wouldn’t have to draw their blades, and they’d wanted to make sure no one else acted preemptively. After all, Finley was the only reason they’d received their second chance.

She couldn’t say with certainty, though.

She’d talked to Ser Yorric on a few separate occasions and had found him to be not at all what she’d expected. He rarely spoke of mages or the mage/templar war at all, instead investing his time in helping to train recruits—when he wasn’t assisting with Finley, of course.

Further, he seemed to deal well enough with the few mages who had dared to come to the Inquisition’s banner and offer their aid.

“Someone is here to see you, Commander,” she said, smirking when he paused to look over his shoulder. He paled. She hit him lightly with her shield. “You had to have expected this.”

He had been so distraught over his actions with the red lyrium, of having ‘allowed’ himself to get so entranced that he had left the Herald to be poisoned by it, mere paces behind him, that he hadn’t known what to do, even after she regained consciousness. Once he’d known she would live—despite being told she would, he’d had his doubts—he had found ways to busy himself, with never enough time to visit.

Cassandra had caught him about an hour after sunset one day and dragged him along, figuring that he would kill himself if he kept up this mad drive, assuming it was some form of repentance. He’d stopped her just short of the door, pulling away, admitting that if the Herald became an abomination, he wouldn’t be able to handle it, especially if he saw her like that. His memories from Kinloch Hold were becoming more vivid, and he couldn’t see her if she became a mirror to those horrid images.

It would break him.

After pointing out that if she was going to fall to demons, it would likely have already happened, he’d reluctantly agreed to go the last few paces. They’d nodded to the guards and pushed the door open, only to stop in the doorway.

Sera and Finley had been passed out on the small cot, with Varric seated in the chair, leaning against the bed, asleep as well. Sera had been above the covers, with one arm flung across the Herald’s waist, curled up against her, head on the Herald’s shoulder. There had been an old book open. Likely, it had been in the Herald’s lap before she’d fallen over into her dreams.

By the time Cassandra had turned around, whispering that they ought to leave them be, she’d found herself alone.

They hadn’t talked about why he’d left like he had, but she had an inkling. While there was still tension between the two of them, as time ticked on, she’d noticed that the cause seemed to be shifting.

She’d read enough romance novels to see where this was going.

He wiped the cold sweat from his brow with his practice leathers, sheathing his sword and shouldering his shield. Cassandra did the same, and the two of them met Finley at the edge of the training area. His hands rested on his blade’s hilt, a bit too casually.

“Herald.” He nodded when she stopped in front of them.

The wind had added a touch of rose to her cheeks, nose, and ears, but she seemed to be in brighter spirits than Cassandra had seen her in the last few days. There’d even been a bit of a bounce in her step.

“Finley,” Cassandra said, a quick nod following.

She nodded quickly in return. As she straightened up, the wind swept around them, sending chills through Cassandra and Cullen. Finley just closed her eyes and leaned into it. As soon as it had passed, though, her eyes were glued to Cullen.

“So then. You’ve recovered well?”

“I told you before that I was fine,” he mumbled, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. He tried to turn the conversation away from himself. “Should you be out of bed?”

“I should have been out of it three days ago, but the Inquisition insisted on caging me,” she crossed her arms, feigning horror. “To whom do I express my distaste?”

“Josephine, most likely,” Cassandra offered, smiling. When Finley grinned at her, Cassandra straightened up a bit, “Speaking of our ambassador, we have news. We were going to tell you tonight, but seeing as you’re here…” She noticed Cullen had taken a step or two back, like he might leave the ladies to catch up and bury himself in some paperwork or something equally time consuming. “Why not summon the others for a proper war meeting?”

“More rifts?” Finley asked, head cocked.

“More allies,” Cullen said, before Cassandra could. A small grin tugged on the scar on his lip. “We’ve finally managed to track down where most of Ferelden’s and Orlais’ templars have gone. We reached out, and they reached back.”

“The Lord Seeker is leading them, still, and wanted to speak with you, personally,” Cassandra added, shifting a little as the rush from combat practice left her, making the next gust of wind all the colder. “He insisted you come in person.”

“Ah, so a trap then?” Finley uncrossed her arms and tugged on her gloves, making sure they were in place. They couldn’t see her bandages beneath her sleeve, but both of them were well aware of its presence.

“I don’t think it is,” Cullen murmured, shifting his feet a little.

Cassandra nodded. “It is strange, but the lord seeker was always a good man. Perhaps he has come around to reason. Regardless, if we accept the invitation, we will be sure to take every precaution.” Even as Finley’s gaze grew foggy, no doubt drumming up memories of the man who had ordered the templars to abandon Val Royeaux, she added, “Also… Leliana will explain it more, but the mages have reached out to us, as well.”

“We do not need to ally ourselves with an unstable faction,” Cullen snapped, almost instantly. His usual grim countenance had returned. “The goal is to close the Breach, not make it worse with abominations running amok.”

Cassandra gave him a cross look, resting a hand on her hip. “We will discuss _all_ of our options.”

When she looked back at Finley, she saw a flicker of something in her eyes… mistrust?

Perhaps their relationship wasn’t heading quite where Cassandra had mused it would.

Letting out a slow puff of frozen air, Finley nodded slowly. “To work, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads!


	27. Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the leaders of the Inquisition debate who to go to for aide in closing the Breach, Cullen dreads the outcome.

The arguments had been made, the reasons laid out as clearly as could be done. Cullen and Cassandra wanted to go to the templars for assistance. Cullen was sure that the templars would be able to disrupt the Breach, and Cassandra agreed.

Leliana wanted to assist the mages. Surely, magic could cancel magic. She’d also been quick to point out that the world was oh so cruel to mages, and they could use a chance to make their image better. Cullen disliked the way Leliana hadn’t pulled any punches, reminding their dear Herald that she was a mage herself and that surely she would understand what it was like to live in a world that didn’t accept her.

Their Herald had surprised them all with a simple shrug. “The templars decided a long time ago that I wasn’t meant to be a Circle mage, so having to rebel was never a path I would have had to consider.”

Leliana had tried to play upon the way they’d sent their invitation from Redcliffe. Something about it had been strange—as though most things involving mages weren’t. Even Cullen had to admit that something about their offer for help had been wrong, though. Almost coerced. It screamed of a trap, to him and to Cassandra.

And to the Herald, though everything was apparently a trap in her mind.

“A baby shower,” Josephine’s voice rang out quietly from beside him at the war table.

“I know no one who is expecting, so trap,” the Herald replied, though her gaze was on the little markers on the map. She used her index finger to tip the one over Redcliffe back and forth. Of the five of them, she and Josephine were the only ones undecided and if they both chose the mages…

Maker, don’t let them side with the mages.

Josephine tapped her quill slowly against her blank paper. “Hmm…what about someone offering you a drink?”

“I always expect drinks to be poisoned,” Finley replied, letting the Redcliffe marker go and straightening up slowly, fingers dragging absently across the map. About halfway up, she started tracing a river, gaze moving with it, as though she could see the actual thing rushing across the parchment. “But that’s fine. I’ve spent years learning their antidotes and building immunities to some.”

“Do you make poisons?” Josephine cocked her head, distracted from her original game.

“No, but I know someone who does.” The Herald finally straightened up, looking across at Josephine. For a second, he thought he saw a flash of something in her eyes. Fear? Then, she was shrugging. “I lived near an Avvar hold or two. They have rogues who dabble in poison, same as here. I sometimes traded for some of their concoctions, if only so I could figure out cures for them.”

Part of him wanted to dismiss that fear he’d seen as a trick of candle light—even though it was early evening at this point, the lighting in the war room was poor—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been real.

A mage friend she was protecting, perhaps?

“With the mages, there will be abominations,” Cullen reiterated for what felt like the millionth time, drawing the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“I was always under the impression,” their Herald began, gaze on the war table rather than him, “that demons sought mages so that they could get a footing into our world.”

“They do,” Cullen murmured, frowning at her tone.

She pointed in the general direction of the Breach. “They aren’t exactly having a hard time of that at the moment, are they?” She paused, drumming her fingers against the table in one of her odd tunes. “They don’t even need a meat suit.”

Cassandra took in a slow breath. “That is a fair point, but templars—”

“Will likely hear the call of the red lyrium by the temple, will they not?” Finley interrupted, raising that eerie stare to meet Cassandra’s.

“It is possible.”

“So, assuming there are still demons near the Breach who wish to take mages—or just a few demons who follow a few specific mages around for vendettas or whatever reason—we have possibilities of abominations _and_ of mad templars,” Finley said, most dismissively. “That would mean that both sides carry about the same risk.”

“So long as the templars do not get too close to the red lyrium, it won’t be a problem,” Cullen insisted. He’d been near it before, after all. He hadn’t fallen to its song until he’d been in that room with it so, so very close.

“You realize the incentive for mages to ignore a demon’s call to improve their standing in the world would likely outweigh whatever the demon might be able to offer them, yes?”  she asked, head cocked as she finally looked at him. “You fear that they will reach for power that is not theirs, but the dangled security of not being seen as some vile, hated beast is likely far stronger. After all, it’s hope, and people do a lot for hope.” She seemed to look to Cassandra for reassurance at her words, though the seeker merely lowered her gaze.

Cullen had to fight the urge to snap something in rebuttal. As a mage, he’d figured that their Herald would want to side with her own kind, and yet he’d hoped she would see reason. Magic was dangerous, and fighting one immensely powerful and unstable force with another was hardly reassuring or safe for the general public. He turned toward Josephine, a pleading look in his eyes. “I feel for the mages’ plight, but if we go to them, will it not kill our chances at gaining other allies?”

“Would we even need other allies with the mages with us?”

He looked back at the Herald, lips dipping into a deep frown. However, it was Cassandra who replied. “Even after the Breach is closed, there will still be other rifts and the task of finding whoever caused it to begin with and bringing them to justice. We will need other allies.”

At that, the Herald’s shoulders slumped slightly. Despite the defeat it portrayed, Cullen couldn’t help the small bubble of hope in him. Was she coming around? Did she understand that siding with the mages really was too much of a risk for them?

“While assisting the mages will be seen as problematic by some,” Josephine stated, nodding her head as she motioned toward Cullen and Cassandra, “if they can successfully close the Breach, it will mitigate most damages done.”

Cullen wanted to pull his hair out. “Josephine, what is _your_ stance?” Even if they included the Herald, with Josephine on his and Cassandra’s side, they would win the vote. It was part of why they’d included the Herald, truth be told.

To have a tie breaker.

At Cullen’s prompt, Josephine seemed to falter for a moment. Her gaze went to him to Cassandra and then swept to Leliana and Finley. Leliana gave her a simple smile; Finley watched her, playing with her hair and no doubt tangling it so badly that it would take days to brush out.

“I will side with our Herald. She has the mark, after all. She is the one who must work with these allies in the field of battle.”

“And what of the red lyrium?” Cullen asked. It felt oddly low to play upon the Herald’s interest in it, but it was surely just as valid a reason as any of the others. “Didn’t you say it was maddening to not be able to understand it? If we go to the templars, I’ll wager we can find out more about that substance.”

“You assume,” Leliana interrupted, her tone surprisingly bitter, “that they are not simply using it blindly and that there actually are answers to be had from them.”

The Herald’s fingers caught in a knot she’d wound into her hair, and she frowned, busying herself with freeing her appendage. “Why is it, exactly, that we can’t reach out to both?”

“Because they are at war.” Cassandra sighed. “If they hear we are going to their enemies, they will not see us.”

For a second, Cullen was almost certain that their Herald would suggest they try it anyway, which would have been the most maddening way to fail at tie breaking that he could think. However, she stopped herself before she could finish that sentence, seeming to realize it was a foolish notion at best.

He watched her for a moment longer before finally offering, “Why do we not sleep on this matter?” He ignored the way Leliana’s eyes narrowed, adding, “We have all brought up good, valid points, and it would do to take time to think on this, rather than make decisions on a whim.”

“There’s no need,” the Herald replied, shaking her head. “We will go to Redcliffe. As Josephine said, I will have to fight with these people at my side. I will be able to focus better if they are not templars.”

And there it was.

Cullen closed his eyes, willing himself not to keep arguing a lost cause. He tried not to think of Kinloch Hold, of what had happened the last time mages had been in control.

“If we are to go to Redcliffe, we will likely wish to take care who we bring with us,” Cassandra was saying as she looked over some reports. She’d already accepted defeat. “A smaller contingency would likely be more appreciated as some mages can be a bit…”

She didn’t finish her sentence.

If the Herald realized any similarities between herself and the implied paranoia that infected more than a few mages, she made no note of it. When Cullen looked back at her, she was considering it, carefully. “Perhaps Solas and Lady Vivienne?”

Leliana stepped up closer to her. “I believe Lady Vivienne wishes the Circles restored, does she not?”

“Yes, but she promised to help the Inquisition,” the Herald said, shaking her head. “I think she also has a better grasp of how the Circle works, and how Circle mages think than I do. It would be helpful.”

“I would suggest leaving Solas here. While he is quite helpful, I do not think bringing along another apostate would be wise. We wish to appear ordered, after all.” Cassandra finished reading the reports and looked around the room at the rest of them. “And Sera would do well to stay here as well. She is a…well-meaning girl, but building alliances requires a certain level of finesse which will be harder to pull off with her present.”

“So long as she gets to help close the Breach itself, I don’t think she’ll mind being left behind,” the Herald considered. “She’s been wanting to work with one of Bull’s Chargers on some kind of explosive anyway, so that’ll give her plenty of time.”

Cassandra straightened up, “Maker. When were they planning on starting this project?”

“Yesterday?”

Before anyone else could say anything, Cassandra swept out of the room, her pace a bit quicker than usual. Josephine let out a sharp laugh. “There is hardly ever a dull moment, truly.” She paused in whatever she was jotting down, slipping around the table and stopping when she was beside Finley. “Do you have an idea of who else you wish to accompany you, if anyone? Leliana can have word en route before the night is out.”

Almost instantly, the Herald’s eyes lit up, her entire demeanor changing. It was the first time Cullen had seen her look genuinely happy. “Oh, we could ask Warden Blackwall to accompany us.”

“You will have a dozen of our strongest warriors with you,” Cullen interrupted, when she began to suggest the Chargers, as well. “You won’t need to bring the whole Inquisition with you.”

Josephine laughed as she wrote down the warden’s name. “I heard from Varric that you fawned over our dear warden, but I’d thought it another of his tall tales.”

Straightening up, indignant, she met Josephine’s gaze calmly. “I do not fawn.”

“As you say,” Josephine couldn’t help her smile, eyes partially narrowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a proper response to draft for their invitation.”

When it was just the Herald left with him, he shuffled a few papers he’d been looking over and began toward the door. “You likely won’t be able to travel with many templars in your midst, for fear of a backlash from the mages, but I will see to it that only our best soldiers will accompany you. You’ll be safe.” When she turned to leave with him, he couldn’t help but watch her from the corner of his eye. She waited next to him as he locked up the war room and then matched his pace as they headed out.

“You won’t be coming?”

“Me?” He blinked at her and then shook his head. “No. I will be needed here.” He hesitated as they reached the doors, pushing one open and waiting for her to step out before following after. The sky was just beginning to darken, splashes of pinks and oranges beneath clouds and encircling the eerie green of the Breach. “Even if I wasn’t needed here, it wouldn’t help for me to go. I was the knight-commander at Kirkwall for a time, and there are many who…it would not be wise.” When he noticed her looking at him, her brow furrowed, he added, “It shouldn’t affect our alliance.”

She looked away, her mind a whir with something. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.

“Shall I walk you back to your quarters? Mine are nearby.”

“I recall,” she murmured. When he let out a half-hearted laugh, she turned about so that she was walking backwards, watching him. “I have considered how things are between us.”

He arched his eyebrows, eyeing her with mild suspicion. “Have you?”

“I realize you are likely displeased with this turn of events.”

He couldn’t help a small, bitter laugh. “You could say that.”

“You shouldn’t worry so,” She blurted. When he nearly stumbled to a stop, turning toward her, her eyes were focused ahead. “I may seem reckless to you, but I am very cautious. If the Circle mages seem too unstable, I will publicly denounce them.” She paused, looking up at him. “That would make the templars consider us, yes? If the mages lack discipline and control, like you fear.”

Cullen didn’t know what to say. The likelihood that she would think her fellow casters to be anything other than reliable seemed slim, but at the same time, that she was even willing to offer him this recourse was…

When he didn’t respond, she shrugged. “So if I come back with mages, you’ll know that I have faith in them. If not, you’ll be happy.”

“I…” Cullen coughed. How did one respond to that? Finally, he cleared his throat. They were almost to her hut. “Just promise me that you will be careful.”

“I already said—”

“Forgive me if images of you leaning into an ill templar’s clutches come to mind when you declare how cautious you are.”

At that, she let out a faint huff. Her fingers trailed over her arm, as though feeling her scar through her shirt. “That was...”

“And getting slashed at and tackled by demons does not speak much to caution, either.”

Her gaze rolled up to meet his, frown in place. “I will stay safe. I will not charge in before those with shields. Cassandra is good at keeping ahead of me.” As she finished speaking, they reached the little building that had become her home these last few weeks.

After the last week, he thought it strange not to see anyone standing guard, though it made sense that they wouldn’t be needed any longer. He’d wandered past a few times, considering coming by to check on her. But then, she had enough people crowding around her, stealing her time, her moments.

He stopped in front of her door, nodding his head once. “Sleep well, Herald.”

“Commander,” she said, stopping him as he turned to go. “We likely won’t be leaving for a few days, yes?” When he nodded, she began to play with her braid, winding loose locks around her hair. The earlier, neat braids Josephine had done had disappeared days ago. “I shall see you about, then.”

“I suppose you will.”

She clasped her hands in front of her and offered him a slight bow, a small smile in place. As she turned to step inside, he had the strangest urge to reach out to her, to catch her and ask her to stay with him a moment longer, or just to let him sit with her inside. Just to make sure she really was alright, of course.

As her door closed, he sighed, suddenly acutely aware of how cold it was outside. Allowing himself a small shiver, he turned and headed to his own quarters. He’d have to make sure to send the most level-headed and seasoned of their warriors with her.


	28. Change of Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to the wonderful creepypasta-queen- for beta reading!

Cassandra led their small group through the Hinterlands, listening idly as Lady Vivienne instructed Finley on the different customs that Circle mages were more acquainted with. While the First Enchanter was hardly pleased with the notion of going to speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona, she had resigned herself to the fact that she had indeed promised her aid.

She and Finley were discussing small slights that Circle mages did when they weren’t impressed with one another, with Warden Blackwall following along beside Finley, listening patiently. Lady Vivienne had already made several quips toward him, showing her obvious distaste in what she presumed to be a waste of space.

Listening to how quick she was to berate the man, Cassandra had rather expected there to be a falling out betwixt Herald and First Enchanter. However, Finley had simply requested they not bother one another—a request the warden had quickly agreed to, whilst Lady Vivienne had merely turned her gaze elsewhere, assuring Finley had she had no intention of wasting energy on something so far beneath her.

Somehow, that had been enough.

While Cassandra was not thrilled to be heading to Redcliffe, she couldn’t help but feel that neither was Finley. The mage seemed to be getting more and more skittish the closer they drew to the town. The rest of their party was picking up on it, and Cassandra had been forced to quell more than a few whispered doubts with a harsh look back.

She recognized a few of their party, including two of the templars Finley had recruited—the two who had come from Val Royeaux to talk sense into their brothers and sister in arms. Ser Yorric and Ser Rodrin. They seemed like a decent sort, though the former kept watching Cassandra. She’d look back, meet his gaze, and he’d give her a warm smile and look ready to break out into conversation.

There was a bit much to do at the moment for them to be allowing for such casual interactions…or so she kept telling herself. Especially considering how the way he watched her made her heart miss a beat every so often.

Hardly professional.

In truth, it wasn’t like they were doing much other than walking forward. That didn’t require nearly the concentration that she would have liked or needed to keep a faint flush from flooding her cheeks.

“Once we arrive at Redcliffe,” Ser Yorric’s voice came from right beside Cassandra, and she frowned. As she turned to eye him, he was still talking his eyes sparkling with some internal brilliance that she both wanted to know better and wanted to keep at bay, “Would you like Rodrin and I to wait outside the town? I realize we were brought along for a reason, but it occurs to me that having templars walk into a town run by mages may not be the brightest idea…for any party involved.”

“The mages will need to understand that, while we are not allied with the Order itself, we do have templars in our midst. If they cannot accept working with so few, then it will likely go poorly regardless.”

“So we’re a quiet reminder that everyone must play nice,” Ser Yorric nodded. “I was wondering.”

“Are you unwilling to play your part?”

The grin that he gave her was…unexpected. “My lady seeker, I would almost think you are trying to get rid of me.” His armor clinked as they walked along, a light wind tugging at his loose hair, the sun highlighting his swarthy complexion with warm undertones. “I’ve every intention of seeing this world saved, just as much as you.”

Cassandra let out a dry laugh. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Then I suppose it was fortunate that someone so chivalrous showed up on our stoop.”

“You say that like you are not pleased, but I think you are,” Ser Yorric offered, a rather cocky grin in place when Cassandra rolled her eyes toward him. As she arched one of her eyebrows, he shrugged a little. “I’m always happy to assist a lovely lady. Even if she is a force that doesn’t seem to need it.”

“I assure you, the Herald needs all the help she can get.” Cassandra sighed.

At that, Ser Yorric straightened up, mildly baffled at her response. Even as Cassandra’s brow dipped down, realizing that she must have missed something—though she couldn’t for the life of her fathom what—she felt a hand on her arm.

Finley had stepped up to her other side, gaze scanning their surroundings as she pulled the seeker to a stop. The echoes of magic in her eyes seemed a bit brighter and sharper than usual as she frowned. “Someone is watching me.”

“Watching you?” Ser Yorric clarified, brow pinching together. He’d stopped a few paces ahead of Cassandra.

Finley’s gaze darted toward him, flickering with annoyance before she looked back at Cassandra. “I can’t tell the direction. Usually, I can.” She hesitated. “And the glare’s stronger…like with that red lyrium templar.”

That made Cassandra turn to face Finley fully. Despite not quite understanding what the Herald was talking about, she’d gathered the gist of it. “You think there are more infected templars out here? Now?”

Before Finley could reply, her eyes widened, and her entire body went stiff. Maker’s Breath, for a time it seemed as though she wasn’t even breathing.

All at once, magic was in the air.

Both Finley and Lady Vivienne were casting shields across the party, as arrows rained down, some made with what looked to be shards of red lyrium as the tips.

There was a small cliff just south of them, and Cassandra quickly called for them to group up there. They would defend with their backs to the cliff face, to ensure that no one could sneak up on them.

As their party started toward the cliff, something lumbered out of the woods toward them, attempting to cut them off. It made more than a few of them stumble to a halt. Despite wearing what looked to be pieces of a templar uniform, whatever that beast was could not have been a man. It was all red, sharp shards protruding from hard, rock-like skin as it towered up several feet taller than most qunari. There was a glow about it as well, sickening and twisted.

The creature let out a roar as it saw their casters, picking up its pace until it was in a proper charge.

Lady Vivienne attempted to cast a frost spell upon the monster, only for it to do something…it had almost sounded like a templar interrupt, but it hadn’t been. The creature broke the spell before it could even fully form, seemingly encouraged by its ability.

Warden Blackwall moved against it first, swinging around behind it and then angling so that he could throw most of his weight behind his shield and use the creature’s own momentum to topple it over. Though his tactic worked, the monster was back on its feet, in a low crouch, far too quickly.

As it shot toward the warden, distracted at least from their mages, arrows plinked into its body. Though a few embedded themselves in the glowing lyrium protruding from it, most of the arrows barely even scuffed the creature.

Cassandra and Ser Yorric charged the beast next, positioning themselves so that no matter which way it tried to go, there was someone blocking its path. Granted, all of them were dwarfed compared to the lumbering behemoth, but that hardly mattered.

As they sought out weak points in the lyrium and armor, striking as quickly and forcefully as they could, Cassandra dared a glance around to see where the rest of their party had gotten to. Most of their people had made it to the cliffs, and their archers were busily picking off the rest of their enemies. The few still scattered through the field were fending off…

Maker, they were definitely templars.

They weren’t as twisted as the one Cassandra had engaged, but they were growing lyrium from their bodies, and many sported red veins that covered their skin like a sickly web.

Lady Vivienne managed to freeze one in place and break him with her staff before he could interrupt her spell.

Even as Cassandra wondered if they should keep the behemoth at bay or try to regroup with the rest of their party, the creature’s twisted, club like fist slammed into Cassandra’s shoulder and sent her flying into the dirt. She heard a few people call out to her, but she managed to roll to the side before it could smash its fist down. She felt that familiar, warm tingling of magic that came with Finley’s shields as she rolled to her feet, her shoulder already feeling like it was mending back together.

The creature had used too much force when it had attacked, and its arm was stuck in the earth. As it roared, trying desperately to free itself, Ser Yorric took advantage of the situation to leap onto its back and, with a swift motion, plunged his sword into the back of the creature’s neck. He abandoned his sword as he dodged back, covering his face before the tainted blood could spurt across him.

The beast shuttered once and then finally slumped over.

The three of who had been fighting the behemoth didn’t give themselves time to pause. Instead, they rushed toward the cliff to regroup. Ser Yorric picked up a fallen blade so that he could still join the fray. Cassandra beheaded a lankier, still human-looking templar who had tackled Lady Vivienne to the ground.

About the same time, ice shards struck through the man’s torso. Lady Vivienne was on her feet even as Cassandra shoved the corpse away from her, standing straight and proud, a single brow arched. “Darling, you needn’t worry over me. Keep them off…”

Her voice cut short as she looked around. Then, the First Enchanter’s brow dipped down, anger overtaking her. Two more corrupted templars fell to ice.

Warden Blackwall threw his sword, catching the last of the archers who had been attempting to flee back into the safety of the woods.

The rest of them stood there, catching their breath, looking around at the bodies that littered the forest floor. Of their sixteen, they’d lost five.

Considering the odds and the numbers they’d been against, Cassandra considered that rather good. Ser Rodrin stood near a few of the archers, one of his arms hanging limp at his side. He nodded toward her, though it was Lady Vivienne who interrupted them before anyone could comment that they’d been lucky.

“What happened to Herald Finley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads!


	29. Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the wonderful creepypasta-queen- for beta reading, and to everyone else who reads, leaves kudos, and comments!

“Will this let me know you?”

Leliana’s lips moved as she slit Commander Rutherford’s throat.

Finley couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t because of what she was seeing—she knew it was a dream, horrifying as it was—but rather because of what had ensnared her in it.

A demon.

A demon was in her head.

And if it was, that meant she was connected to the Fade for a prolonged time, which meant others might take note.

Dealing with crazed demons at the rifts was nightmarish enough. But the ones still in the Fade? They were sane, and they were—

 _It_ laughed softly in her ear, and she whirled around to find Commander Rutherford standing behind her, head tilted slightly, unnaturally. His smile wasn’t right.

As soon as she’d thought that, his lips dipped into a frown and then back into that half smile she was so used to.

She gulped.

This was wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She wanted it out of her head.

How had it even gotten in?

She knew she hadn’t said yes.

She would never say yes.

Not to a demon.

She remembered heading toward Redcliffe and then…templars? She’d been trying to keep everyone alive, trying to pay attention to the dozen warriors that Commander Rutherford had sent with them, trying to keep up the three she was more acquainted with, as well, and then…

Then…

She could remember pain. She’d been interrupted mid cast, and it had been like no spell interrupt she’d ever suffered before. Granted, she hadn’t been hit with one in a few years, thanks to her meticulous crafting of shorter spells.

Still, she’d been knocked out. A few fleeting, disjointed memories of rocks and trees passing by and templar boots walking dotted a muddy expanse of memory. A few groggy escape attempts speckled her haphazard memory, as well, though they’d always ended with more of that awful pain—that red lyrium really did do something to the templars…stronger wasn’t an adequate description.

How long ago had that been? Had the templars brought her to a demon? Had the templars been overwhelmed by demons from a rift?

Was she lying beside one now?

_Just promise me that you will be careful._

She’d botched that one, hadn’t she?

“Your memories of his lips are rather…clear,” the commander whispered, his voice a low, tempting purr. There was more to it, though, a second voice, hideous and warped, talking in time with him. His gaze narrowed, frown returning. “Or is that only because a templar’s frown means their sword is about to be drawn?” His hands rested on the pommel of his blade.

Trying not to succumb to her panic, she darted back, raising her bow and shooting an arrow into the false commander. It hit him where his heart should have been. That calculating expression shifted into a pained, questioning look—brow raising in confusion, lips parted ever so slightly with an unspoken question—as his fingers gripped the arrow. He fell to his knees, still staring at her as though he couldn’t understand why she would attack him.

For the briefest second, she thought perhaps he had been real after all. That she’d killed the real Commander Rutherford.

He faded out before he hit the ground.

She notched another arrow, searching the room for Leliana. She wasn’t real, either.

Instead, she heard an all too familiar laugh.

Sera paced out from behind one of the pillars, swinging her arms slowly, lacing her fingers in front of her and then letting them swing back, only to repeat the motion. “Crazy, innit?” Her eyes widened a bit too much, her smile too crooked. “You think you’re soooo special because of a little mark, but really, it’s all in here.” She tapped her head. “And I’m already in.” She let out a gleeful cackle, just a note too high.

Again, as the thought registered, the apparition adjusted itself accordingly.

A heavy arm wrapped around her neck, pulling her backwards. She could just make out Leliana’s hair falling beside her, her hood keeping most of it back. “So tell me, will this form let me know you?”

She couldn’t breathe.

Struggling against her own fears, she gave a sharp kick back into Leliana and then shot the image of Sera. Again, she watched a friend fall, confused and betrayed. Blood bubbled up from her lips as she managed a single, “Why?”

She didn’t wait for the next illusion to show up. She couldn’t do this.

Racing to the edge of the room, she forwent the door, launching herself out the window. Instead of the tree she’d been aiming for, she stumbled into an old camp, the fires burning brightly as a dozen other mages huddled together, grim hopelessness etched into their faces.

Her own hair fell shorter around her, barely reaching past her shoulders. She was younger, seventeen.

A mage she hadn’t thought of in a long time stepped up to her. “You are certain the darkspawn are headed this way?”

“Yes,” she whispered without meaning to.

Even as he nodded, turning to help prepare their small alcove for the coming incursion, she saw the earrings on his ear were wrong. He had one too many. It disappeared as he turned back to her, his eyes pure black. “Did they really hold out? Or is that just what you tell yourself so that it doesn’t hurt so much? Were you really as helpful as you remember?”

Darkspawn were everywhere, picking off mages as they were separated from one another, dragging away the injured. An elf she’d known well sobbed, her nails tearing against the soil as she tried to stop herself from being taken.

Her hair was a shade too light.

 _It’s the demon_ , she told herself. Closing her eyes as tightly as she could. _Try not to think about this. I know they made it. They survived._

“Did they?” A grotesque voice whispered. When she opened her eyes, an ogre was leaning toward her, its teeth bared, hunched over and ready to lunge. Its eyes were dead.

Taking in a deep breath, she whirled away and took off running, leaping over corpses and darkspawn both. As she passed them, she could see them flickering out of existence.

The ground shook, and she could feel the ogre’s focus on her.

“ _If I’m to die, it will be on my terms_.” The demon’s voice whispered in her ears. “Choice is important to you, isn’t it? You must be the one to decide your fate, no templars, no Inquisition, no darkspawn, no Maker. The choice must be yours…”

Swerving to the side, she leapt off the cliff that the camp had been based beside—they’d hoped it would create a choke point for the darkspawn, when they’d chosen it. She fell through the air, feeling the wind in her hair, that familiar, friendly tug.

She’d barely hit the ground when she heard the clink of metal and had to roll to the side to dodge a templar’s sword. It was getting too far into her memories.

Now, she was younger still, maybe thirteen. Her clothes were threadbare, and her feet were sticking to the mud—one of the most miserable parts of the Wilds’ summers. There were three templars, and for a moment her heart sank.

Then she remembered that those men had been in earlier memories.

Even as she saw a hideous, fanged smile beneath one of the templar’s helms, she cursed herself.

What was it that the damned thing had been going on about?

Knowing her?

She was giving the damned thing exactly what it wanted.

Her memories. She was teaching it who she’d been, how she’d been.

She shot the templars, frustration beginning to overtake her panic. She couldn’t let herself end this way. Not when…

_It would almost be helpful if…_

_No._

She could beat this creature back if she just—

The song birds were crying.

_No, no, no._

_Don’t let it get that._

_Don’t let it—_

“This way, quickly.”

The voice was gentle, foreign. She didn’t trust it.

“He mimics the ones you know. I won’t do that. It wouldn’t help. This way. Before he finds the way first.”

Even though a part of her was screaming not to, she shot after the voice, if only to outrun those awful cries. This time, she didn’t even need to jump before the scenery changed. She was standing in front of a vast expanse of blighted land, the flowers and grasses that had once interrupted the miles and miles of forest gone. In its place, the soil was barren. What little plant-life did grow was brown and twisted and sick. No animals dared go near it.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner.” The voice was behind her.

She whirled around, an arrow notched. She didn’t know what she’d expected—one of her fellow apostates, a darkspawn, a templar? However, that wasn’t what she found. A young man stood there, his blonde hair so shaggy that it covered his eyes. An odd, floppy hat spanned over him, stretching out to his shoulders. His clothes were patched and worn, and daggers hung on his hips.

He held his hands up, as non-threateningly as he could. “ _Helpful whispers, twisted smiles. Not right, not right. No. Shouldn’t be more than one in a head. Can’t be like_ her _. Get out, get out—_ ” He took a slow step toward her. “I will, I promise. I know I shouldn’t be here. But I had to come in to help you. I’m sorry.”

She aimed her bow at him, breathing heavily. “What are you?”

“I’m…help.” He took another step forward. “He wants to be you, but only you can be you. He doesn’t understand, and that makes him angry. So he hunts for new people to be. Maybe he’ll get it right with you…” He shook his head. “I won’t let him.”

Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t human. He gave her a faint smile. “Of course I’m not human. I couldn’t help if I was.”

She stiffened. “You’re in my head.”

“We all are,” he replied, motioning around. “You knew that. You…oh. I’m sorry. You mean your thoughts.” He paused, picking at one of his sleeves. “Well, we’re all in that, too. Or trying to be. He can’t quite get it right. That’s why he needs you to remember.”

Despite it being glaringly obvious that the creature in front of her was something that belonged in the Fade, it’s voice didn’t have the same undertones that most demons held. Her reminded her more of the few wisps she’d dared to talk to over the years, always so careful not to offer anything other than stories.

They had been simpler creatures than most demons, benevolent and curious, helpful and harmless until provoked.

This creature was much more than a wisp, but…

“What is he? The one trying to be me?” she whispered.

“Envy,” the young man stated. The world began to shift. He looked around, frowning. “He’s found us. Don’t think about what happened here. Think about anything else. Think about something that never mattered, something that wasn’t yours to begin with. Think about—”

The world was twisting. She could see the Black City hanging in the sky as the scenery changed. With a blink, she was in a tower. It was old and falling to ruin. The few books still on the bookshelf were ready to turn to dust at a touch. Greenery had overtaken much of the remaining walls, with vines and mosses and tiny, gentle white flowers.

The young man was gone, though even as she let her shoulders slump in weary relief, he came up the stairway at the far end of the room. He looked around, nodding slowly. “Yes, this is good. No real memories to learn from here.” When he looked at her, she could just barely make out a blue eye under his hair. It was too blue. Almost gray. “ _Not human. Not right. Don’t let it get close. Is this how it was for her? A friendly, harmless hand hiding claws and teeth._ I know you’re afraid, but I will help you, if you’ll let me. He can’t keep up this game, if you keep thinking of places that don’t help. This one is good, but you need to keep going. Keep moving. He’ll get tired.” He smiled at her. He was standing right in front of her. How…? “Even demons can exhaust themselves. And don’t worry, you still have to say yes.”

Her whole body went rigid, all the air rushing out of her lungs at once. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Instead she stared into that blue eye, feeling like it somehow knew every little detail already. If he did, then that meant the other one—

“No, he can’t see in so well. He’s too…busy. He wants to be you, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to care, to hurt. You confuse him.” He motioned with his head toward the window. “Go. He can’t keep up forever.”

She started toward the window, but stopped when she had one foot on the frame. She looked back at him. He still stood where she’d left him. “You swear you’ll leave,” she whispered.

“I don’t need a way in,” he offered. “I’m already…here is not right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like— _No. No, no, no. Spinning words and too sharp a mind. Questions answered before they’re asked. They can’t see. Don’t think. Don’t let them—_ ” He was standing beside her, one hand on her bow, lowering it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…mean it like that. I meant your world. I don’t need a way in.” He shook his head frustrated. “What I mean is I won’t need to stay once he’s gone. Only you should be in you. Go somewhere safe. Somewhere empty.”

The walls were beginning to melt. He nodded toward her. Even as he did so, an idea formed. She thought she saw him look worried just before she turned and launched herself out the window. As she did so, the envy demon lunged up from where it had been scaling the wall outside to get to them, her. It flailed its limbs like a deformed spider, all angles and no grace, grasping for her. She threw her weight against it, flipping herself over, into the abyss, and falling, just out of its reach.

She landed in the foyer of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Mages chattered away on one side of the room, templars on the other. Hateful glares seemed the only expressions anyone was capable of, and even most of those were laced with fear. That wasn’t her concern.

She started running toward the back of the room.

The young man was running beside her. “This is a _very_ bad idea. This place is claimed. We should go somewhere else.”

She skidded to a stop, turning to look at the creature…spirit? The chatter around them had stopped. It was all very, very…hazy. “You said to go somewhere empty.”

The young man flinched at her words. “I didn’t mean…this is wrong. Wrong, wrong. Peeking in minds. Seeing what shouldn’t be seen.”

She narrowed her eyes. That wasn’t what she’d been thinking at all and there was something more to his voice. Just a hint of an undertone. Had she been as panicked as she was earlier, she likely wouldn’t have noticed it.

More than that, his eyes were sky blue, not hint of gray in them.

This wasn’t the one who’d been helping her.

With a curse, his face twisted. Any semblance of a human visage disappeared as he lunged forward. She dodged out of Envy’s reach, stumbling on the floor as she raced toward the back of the room, to where she’d been heading.

The place where the memories stopped.

There was no gradual change, no moment of wavering reality.

She simply stood on the edge of an abyss, jagged rocks spiking into a sickly green sky, darkness everywhere. This place was too familiar, but she couldn’t quite…

A great rumbling filled her ears, making the air itself tremble.

**_A willing guest. How quaint. But I must play the proper host. How would you have me welcome you?_ **

Even as she realized that perhaps the envy demon had had it right about not going here, she felt clawed fingers slipping over her shoulders. She didn’t need to look down to know she would see slender, purplish arms as she felt lips near her ear.

_Dear lost little lamb. It’s time you wake up._


	30. Hardly a Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to creepypast-queen- on tumblr for beta reading for me <3

****

The last month had not been pleasant for Cullen in the slightest.

First, he’d had to deal with the knowledge that mages would be arriving at Haven en masse. Enough mages, in fact, that should something reminiscent of Kinloch Hold occur, there wouldn’t be enough templars present to even begin to keep the rest of Haven safe, let alone keep them from spreading beyond Haven to wreak havoc in the surrounding countryside.

It had brought back dreams and memories that he had hoped would have begun to blur and dull by now.

Of course they were still sharp and horrifying.

Abominations shambling through the halls, only to move faster than any living thing ought to be able to when they caught sight of something they wanted to ‘play’ with. His friends’ screams rang clear in his ears when he jolted awake, that thudding longing in his temples all but screeching that there was a simple way for him to get past this.

Just a taste, and it would numb all this chaos.

Just a taste, and it could eat way these awful memories. It could dull them into something tolerable.

It was a far greater temptation than anything else had been. To be able to get away from those images, from the faces of the dead, from taking in their gruesomely contorted and mangled bodies strewn about the tower.

It would be so, so, so easy to just let the lyrium work its own brand of magic. To let it sweep those nightmares into blurred numbness, to let Cullen forget.

But then, forgetting was the problem, wasn’t it?

Good moments aside—fleeting and far between as they were—forgetting meant that he would forget why it was so important that he push forward. If he forgot what he’d seen, forgot what he’d become in Kirkwall, he would simply repeat it.

He knew he would.

He needed to remember who he was, who he wanted to be.

And so, even with that temptation drumming a steady, unrelenting beat into his temples, he’d done his best to ignore it. He’d snapped a few times at people who didn’t deserve it, but for the most part, he had stayed in control.

Few templars as there were, surely the whole lot of the mages wouldn’t fall to demons. Even in Kinloch Hold there had been some who had held out. And those who didn’t fall to temptation would help fight against any abominations that might emerge.

The Herald would fight.

She would, and she was a damned good healer. With her at their side, they could manage. It would be hard, but if the worst case happened, they would manage.

They would have to.

He’d been swallowing down his fears like bile with every gulp, but he had managed to keep the fear from his eyes as he ordered his soldiers to prepare. He’d managed not to terrify the civilians or recruits with tales of what could go wrong, keeping his writhing terrors trapped safely in his head, where he was the only one they could torment.

Indeed, he was even managing to rein in his fears, to check them with faith in his people and faith in their Herald—despite what that little voice might whisper in the back of his head about plans hinging on the altruism of a skittish apostate.

He was almost confident in his plans when the worst kind of news had come back to Haven. The Herald’s group had been attacked by infected templars.

That had been one of the most horrifying things to hear. Cullen had stumbled over his words like a fool, before finally barking out the question just before Leliana could step in and take over for him. “Is the Herald alright?”

There had been a terrifying silence where the scout had looked from him to Leliana and back as though she didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. A million scenarios had rushed through Cullen’s mind at once, merging and shoving others out of the way before ideas could fully form.

The Herald had died. Or she had been cornered and become an abomination. Or she’d been infected with red lyrium and could no longer cast. In such a state, it would be hard to move her. First Enchanter Vivienne…did she know healing spells?

If the Herald was alive, they would need to send Solas.

Or was she dead? Was she rampaging as a monster as they stood there like fools?

“She was taken.” 

“What?” Leliana had snapped, coming to stand almost shoulder to shoulder with Cullen.

The report had come in a rush after that. When the red templars—the scout’s words—had descended on the group, it had been chaos. They knew that the Herald had been there for most of the fight, as she’d kept people up despite nearly getting hit with red lyrium several times.

No one was sure when she’d been grabbed—or how their attackers had managed it—but she’d been gone by the end of the fight.

For a second, Cullen had wondered if she hadn’t simply gotten cold feet and run.

But then…she wasn’t just some random apostate. She was the Herald. Finley. She’d promised, indignant at times, that she would help close the Breach.

No, she wouldn’t have run.

It was a little baffling that they had chosen to capture her rather than simply kill her, but the scout hadn’t been able to speak as to their enemies’ motivations.

Cassandra had led most of the group after the red templars, determined to find where they’d taken the Herald.

It had been days before they’d received word again.

In those days, Cullen had paced through Haven like a man possessed. He’d continued with plans for the arrival of the mages, as though the Herald wasn’t missing.

As though their plans weren’t on the verge of collapsing.

He’d been questioned once.

Only once.

He hadn’t even needed to respond to the query—it had been about whether there was a point to their preparations when the Herald was likely already dead. As soon as he’d looked toward the soldier who’d asked it, they’d snapped their mouth shut hard enough that he’d heard their teeth clack together.

From then on, everyone had kept quiet.

New recruits continued to flock into Haven. New supporters, too.

It kept him busy.

The busier he was, the less he could wonder about what had happened to his Herald.

And then word had reached him of what had become of her.

And of what had become the Templar Order.

Cullen ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as he walked into the Chantry hall, heading straight for the back room. As he opened the door, he heard that damned table squeak, it’s leg still uncooperative after all this time.

The anger that had been churning in his gut since he’d heard the news dissipated when he saw the Herald standing beside the table, her hair as tangled and wild as ever. She was playing with a place marker as she spoke with Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana, brow pinched together, delicate features twisted with weariness and anger.

“They’re _gone_ ,” she was saying as he quietly closed the door behind him.

Despite the softness of the click of the lock, the Herald jumped as though someone had just screamed in her ear. Her gaze flitted towards him, that brilliant, molten gold burning brightly as she stared at him, breath held just a moment before she let it out slowly.

She shifted her weight a little and nodded to him, almost as though she expected him to lash out.

That she could still expect that after all this time…

It did remind him of why he might be expected to.

Glancing around the room, he noted that he’d been the last to arrive, and he rested his hand on the pommel of his blade as he nodded toward the rest of them. His gaze quickly returned to their Herald. “I hear that you disbanded the Order.”

She winced at his words, appraising him carefully before replying, “I didn’t think they’d actually listen to me.”

That made Cullen stop. Whatever conversation he’d been prepared for vanished from his mind. He took in a slow, measured breath, brow dipping down over his eyes as he pointed toward the timid mage. “You…what?”

Cassandra stepped in before the Herald could flounder through an explanation or try to lose him in a dizzying array of words. “Finley was abducted and taken to Therinfal Redoubt where a demon posturing as the Lord Seeker tried to…replace her. The templars were being fed red lyrium. However, we were able to infiltrate the old fortress and assist those who were not corrupted in defending themselves against the red templars. When we found the survivors, they were holed up in the main hall with Finley healing them.” She looked like she wanted to say more on that subject, but chose not to.

The Herald fidgeted. “Of course I was healing. It’s what I do. I’m a healer.”

As Cullen and Cassandra both looked back at her, the sigh that had been sweeping up his throat caught there. Dark, dark circles hung under her eyes like she hadn’t slept in days, her skin was sallow, and her shoulders slumped as though her arms were too heavy for her.

As though the anchor was.

“You disbanded the Order?” Cullen repeated, his voice a bit gentler.

At that, she stood up a bit straighter, irate. “Of course I did! They were running about ingesting poison and taking orders from a damned demon! If they can’t even figure out that they’re _following_ a demon, how can we expect them to know the difference between a regular mage and an abomination? Whatever training they put you through is clearly deplorable and lacking.” She sniffed, indignant. The place marker clacked against the table as she forcefully set it back in its spot before crossing her arms. “I told them as much. Not a single damned one of them could look me in the eye or argue.”

“So you told them to disband.”

“I was still a little surprised that they’d actually listen to a mage. But they did. And then we went to Redcliffe.” At that, she lost her self-righteousness. “The mages are gone, though.”

“Gone?” When the Herald gave him a look that implied she didn’t feel the need to repeat herself, his gaze left her to turn to Cassandra—who looked almost as worn down as their Herald—and then to Leliana. “Where?”

“We don’t know,” Leliana murmured. “I never received reports of movement or anything that indicated they had left. They are simply gone.”

“If they’re gone, then what are we supposed to do about the Breach?” Cullen motioned over his shoulder in the hole’s general direction. “We can’t just leave it—”

“Many of the templars are en route here,” Cassandra interrupted. When their Herald let out a ‘humph’, she sighed. “Ser Yorric and I suggested that if they wished for redemption or simply a purpose, they could join the Inquisition, just not as the Order.” Cassandra gave the Herald a cross frown, which she chose to ignore, instead opting to inspect her sleeve and a few places where the threads appeared ready to unravel. “Ser Yorric mentioned we might be able to provide them with lyrium, and that all but sealed that most of them will be coming here.”

Cullen paused.

He’d noticed an uptick in templars showing up in bands of twos and threes over the last few days, but they’d all been rather hesitant to explain where they were coming from, or to talk about the Order with him. He’d originally dismissed it as no longer being a part of it himself, not that there simply wasn’t an Order anymore.

That was, until one of them had bothered to relay the message that the Herald of Andraste had passed a rather harsh judgment upon them.

Then he’d just been angry.

However, now…

If all that had been transpiring, perhaps it was for the best that the Order was gone. He hated to see something so longstanding brushed away, but the decision hadn’t been made lightly, as she’d clearly expressed. It was a little disconcerting to think she hadn’t expected them to actually disband when she’d ordered it, but…

“The majority of the them should arrive in the next few days,” Cassandra said, watching as their Herald’s slouch became more pronounced, the mere idea seeming to draw away what little was left of her energy.

“Do I…”

Their eyes all turned back to the Herald, though it was Josephine who spoke, a gentle light in her eyes as she stepped around the table and carefully placed a hand on the Herald’s shoulder. “You look like you could use some rest. We will handle the preparations from here.”

She didn’t wait for anyone else to agree, instead slipping past Cullen and out the door, her feet dragging a little with each step.

Cullen paused when he realized he’d started to reach out to her as she passed. Quickly bringing his hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, he looked back at the others. “So then. We march with the templars.”

Despite Leliana’s scowl, Cassandra nodded. “We do.”

Cullen felt relief sweep through him, the last month’s worries slowly ebbing away as he considered how their plans would need to change to accommodate the remnants of the Order instead of mages. “I’ll get to work, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	31. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to creepypasta-queen- for her awesome beta reading skills, and to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments. Ya'll make my day <3

Its face was inches from hers. Envy. It was too close, too entwined in her mind, and she wasn’t going to be able to get away. It was going to take her, whether she wanted to be possessed or not. Its limbs held her down, making her body hard to move, heavy. Panicking, she sent a sharp kick into its gut and whirled away as it released her, howling in anger.

Finley rolled away from it, springing to her feet and lifting her head to find herself face to face with…

With a shriek, she sat upright in bed, clutching her chest as she tried to even her breathing. There had been something behind her. Something in the darkness, in the void, in the nothing where her memories had disappeared.

Something that had scared Envy.

She shouldn’t have gone back there. Whatever had happened at the Conclave, those memories weren’t hers. They belonged to…to….

Her mind was blank, but she could feel as though something was watching her from every shadow, just deep enough in the darkness that she couldn’t see it. Its gaze crawled over her, conjuring images of burned bodies, twisted corpses. Ash collapsed beneath her shoes. They were still burning. She could hear their screams. Smell their smoldering flesh.

She couldn’t breathe through all the ash and darkness. It was gripping her, pulling her down.

Down, down, down.

There was a deep voice whispering in her ears. It laughed when it realized she could hear it.

**_Finally deciding to listen, are we? I do have so much to say._ **

However, it was the voice that followed it, one with distinctly feminine qualities that spoke over that deep, terrible baritone that made her tremble.

 _Don’t worry, little lamb. We both know_ he _won’t get you._

A loud bang thundered in her ears, and Finley jerked her knees into her chest, instinctively trying to make herself as small as she could. She curled her head forward, not wanting to look up and see what had caused the noise.

Was it one of the demons?

Something worse?

“Herald?”

She turned her head as little as possible and let her gaze slide to the side slowly, not sure what to expect.

Commander Rutherford was there, sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand on her back, the other holding her marked hand. He was leaning forward, worried.

Had his eyes always been so brilliant? She’d always thought they were brown, but they seemed amber in the dim light. A candle was burning nearby, casting shadows across him and making his eyes almost glow. Were the circles on his cheeks supposed to be as dark as they were?

She couldn’t remember.

Armor clinked and her gaze snapped around the room, frantically trying to find whatever had caused it. However, they were alone, with the door slightly askew and a few snowflakes drifting in.

Cullen tightened his grip on her hand, saying something that she missed in her panic.

He was watching her.

Had he come because he didn’t trust that she could face off against a demon and walk away unscathed? The templars had whispered about that as she’d left, when she’d first disbanded their Order. A few had suggested she _was_ the demon, picking up where it had left off and planting the seeds of chaos.

She hadn’t been able to get away from them fast enough.

And now they were all coming to Haven. The mages were gone, and her hunters were coming, and she was one of the few that they’d have reason to keep watch over.

She could feel a templar’s gaze upon her already and shivered as she looked to her side, again discovering the commander, still sitting beside her. His hand moved in slow, gentle circles on her back.

Was it really him, though?

Yes…

The one thing the demon hadn’t been able to copy was the way his gaze tripped her old spell, letting her know that he was watching.

This had to be the real commander, not something conjured to find her weaknesses, to lay her secrets bare.

“You’re alright,” he whispered, his grip on her hand easing.

She swallowed slowly and then nodded, looking down toward her bedsheets. “It was just…”

“A bad dream?” He offered, head tilting. When she nodded silently, his hand slowed on her back. “To have a demon manipulate your mind… It takes a strong person to walk away from that. It’s good to see you…well.” That last word seemed a little doubtful, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or brace herself for a blade’s biting edge. Rather than attack, he simply sat there, not seeming to know what to do. “Do you… I mean, would it, ah… Would it help to talk about it?”

“No.”

He nodded, dropping the subject with surprising swiftness. She’d half expected him to prattle on about feelings or something equally droll, but instead, his hand stilled on her back. Rather abruptly, he seemed to realize that he was touching her, because he withdrew it, though his other hand still grasped hers.

Her gaze flitted toward the door when she heard someone’s boots crunching through the snow as they patrolled by. In a breath, Commander Rutherford was on his feet, striding across the room. “I’m sorry. I was passing by and heard you cry out and… I shouldn’t have let the cold in.” Standing a little awkwardly beside the door, he gripped the inner handle as though to shut it and then paused. “You… I should let you get your rest.”

“Wait,” Finley called out, already off the bed. While the thought of being alone was normally preferential, at the moment, the idea of slipping back into those nightmares left her craving someone, anyone to be near. She caught his hand, even as he stopped, fingers still dangling loosely over the handle. She let him go quickly, drawing her arms to herself and shrugging. “Would… They say you never sleep.” He let out a dry laugh at that. “If you’re going to be up for a while, would you stay?” She took a few steps back, glancing around the room for an excuse.

With the terror of her dream slowly simmering down and her consciousness struggling to operate coherently with what little sleep she’d had the last two weeks, it occurred to her that she typically didn’t want templars mulling about.

But then…

If one of the demons in her dreams was more than a memory, it would help to have someone around, should something unfortunate…

No.

She’d never say yes to a demon. Finley had borne witness long before the Conclave to what demons could do, and she would never be a tool for one. She was stronger than that.

Even if she could barely keep her eyes open.

The commander had closed the door. He caught her as she swayed a little, unsteady on her feet.

Though a part of her hissed something about indignities and being caught by this man on a regular basis, Finley couldn’t bring herself to care. She was tired.

Maker, she was tired.

And the commander had promised to be a shield. Her shield.

He had her hand in his again, his other hand just barely touching the small of her back as he guided her back to her bed. As she climbed back onto it, her actions mechanical and thoughtless, her knee thudded against something hard tangled in her bedsheets. She reached down and pulled her old story book out from the mess. She’d all but forgotten that she’d tried reading a bit of it before falling asleep—hence the candle that had burned down to almost nothing at this point.

Hugging the old book close, she turned and sat with her back against the far wall. Commander Rutherford was glancing about the room for a chair, though it was missing. No doubt carted off to somewhere where it was needed more while she was away. It was a little irksome that someone had been in the space given to her while she was away.

But then, she shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, this wasn’t her home.

It never would be.

When the commander seemed helpless as to what to do with himself, she patted the bed beside her clumsily. He was out of most of his armor, with just his surcoat wrapped around him to keep the cold out as he walked, no doubt.

He seemed to debate something a moment before pulling himself up across the bed so that he was sitting next to her.

“You said you were walking by?” Finley asked, leaning her head back against the wall.

“Ah, yes.” Commander Rutherford scratched at the back of his neck where he sat beside her, shoulder almost close enough to brush hers. “I was about to go to sleep when…” His brow furrowed as he looked toward his feet. Both of their feet stuck out off the edge of the bed. His boots were worn and muddy and large next to her bare toes. He leaned forward to take his boots off so that they wouldn’t dirty the sheets. “I don’t really remember what happened. A scout perhaps? Someone suggested I take a walk.”

As he wondered aloud who it had been, Finley’s mind wandered back to spirits and demons.

To Cole.

The creature had helped her to get away from Envy and, true to his word, had been among the world of the waking when she’d returned. He’d fought beside her and the templars in the main hall, even warned them a few times when the red templars tried to plan sneak attacks or pincer attacks, yet when Cassandra and the others had arrived with a few others who’d been holed up in other parts of the keep, he’d disappeared. Like the mages, he’d simply vanished. Worse, no one had been able to remember him.

He’d shown up along the road on their travels back. It had been shortly after her first nightmare about Envy.

She’d woken up in a panicked sweat only to find him sitting beside her, holding her hand. She’d jerked away from him and hissed something about not letting him in. He’d fretted and disappeared.

The next time she’d seen him, he’d been surprised that she remembered. Surprised, yet pleased. He’d sworn to her—when he wasn’t whispering her own damned thoughts—that he wanted to help, that he could do so much.

She’d finally told him he could tag along for the time being, so long as he kept his distance.

And he had.

Every night, when her dreams had reached their worst, she’d woken up to find a different companion just coming in to check on her. Their reasons ranged. Intuition, a dream, someone suggested it.

It seemed the creature was determined to prove himself a good spirit while keeping in accord with their agreement.

Finley didn’t want to think about creatures of the Fade at the moment, however, regardless of whether they were good or not. As Commander Rutherford settled beside her, his patched socks on display to the world, she fought back another shiver.

Since her encounter with Envy, her mind had kept winding its way back to the commander. What had Envy asked her? Something about his lips.

As her gaze trailed up from his feet to his face, she paused when she realized he was watching her. His brow was pinched together, his lips dipping down at the corners. “You really should rest.”

She fiddled with her braid, trying not to take note of the shape of his mouth. “It won’t be restful.”

“It’s still better than nothing. It wouldn’t do to have you fall asleep while you’re trying to close the Breach.”

Tired as she was, a small smile towed itself up as she imagined herself falling over mid rift-close. The smile was short lived as she considered what complications might arise from such an incident. They were complications she’d rather not deal with, ever.

Without realizing it, she’d slumped a little to the side until she was leaning into him, her head on his shoulder. He stiffened initially before settling again, careful not to jostle her with any sudden movements.

She liked that he would be so careful.

“You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago,” she whispered, her fingers thumping gently against her storybook, still resting against her chest.

“A good someone, I hope,” came his soft response. It sounded like he was speaking from some far off place.

She nodded against his shoulder. “One of the best.”

She wasn’t sure whether he said anything in response to that, because even as she thought to tell him about the story behind her book—that was a story she’d yet to share with anyone, as it hadn’t a happy ending like the tales scrawled across her beloved pages—sleep reached up to claim her again.

This time, it wasn’t nearly so terrifying, and, even with memories of demons whispering through them, her monsters never drew close enough to frighten her.


	32. Anticipation

Cassandra had just finished patrolling Haven after looking for Cullen and finding him missing from his usual haunts. In the absence of the commander, she’d made certain that the guards were on point and that preparations for their ascent to the Temple of Sacred Ashes were coming along smoothly. Thus far, everything seemed to be in order.

Could this really be it?

Would they seal the Breach?

Finley had argued the whole way back from Therinfal Redoubt and Redcliffe—when she had the energy—that they would need to find out what had happened to the mages before they did anything else. She wanted them there when the Breach was sealed. Cassandra had hoped to speak with her about that, after she’d had time to settle down a bit, when they weren’t both helping with last minute preparations for the march up to the decimated temple.

There really wasn’t going to be much time, in the end. The templars were arriving, and plans were already in motion to make their move with their assistance rather than that of the mages.

Finley would not be pleased.

Little could be done in that regard, though. This needed to be dealt with sooner than later. After all, this was but one facet of why the Inquisition existed.

There was still so much to do afterwards. They would need to find the Divine’s killer, locate the missing mages and put an end to the Mage Rebellion—peacefully, if possible—restore the Chantry’s power, close the smaller rifts… The list felt endless, but _this_ would be a tremendous victory. It would be…

It would be a miracle, if it could actually be accomplished.

Everyone was feeling the weight of it, and everyone was terrified that it wouldn’t work. A few groups of people tried to joke around, but their jokes fell flat, the laughter that met them forced. Cassandra had needed to scold Bull and his Chargers for a few pranks, but aside from them, almost everyone just had a grim countenance about them, praying for the best and preparing for the worst.

Cassandra was concerned about the red lyrium at the temple. After the effect it had had on Cullen, she worried that, as Finley had pointed out, they might lose some of their templars to its call. That was why she and Leliana had arranged for there to be twice as many scouts and regular soldiers as templars accompanying them. They would not be taken unaware.

Leliana had been quick to point out that this precaution was no different than what they would have had to do for possible abominations amidst the mages, and Cassandra was loathe to admit that she had a point.

In the end, both factions had their weaknesses.

However, their alliance had been made—unofficial as it was, and would stay, if Finley had her way—and there was no way for them to contact the mages. The templars would have to prove themselves.

Cullen would have to prove himself.

She had faith, but he was worried. He hadn’t said anything, but he was pushing himself harder than before, impossible as it seemed. Perhaps it was because there were so many templars present. As much as he supported them, they were a constant reminder of what he had left behind. He said he wanted no part of it, but abandoning something that had been a part of one’s life for so long did not come without regrets, insecurities, and doubt.

Cassandra still considered herself a seeker, but she, too, had technically left her order. She suspected that Cullen was like her, able to see what their respective orders _could_ be and feeling trapped, unable to shape them thus.

Perhaps once the Inquisition gained more power they would be able to fix both. Perhaps then they could forgive themselves for their shortcomings.

They would close the Breach. They would.

And they would bring justice to the fallen.

If she could just find Cullen… Where had he gotten off to?

In the very least, Chancellor Roderick had finally seemed to accept that the Inquisition wasn’t something he could stop. She hadn’t seen much of him in the last few months, though that was partially because she’d been out traveling so much. From what she’d heard from Leliana and Josephine, however, he had indeed fallen silent.

She thought she saw him around earlier that morning, but if he was about, he was keeping his head low. Perhaps he intended to wait and see if the Breach _could_ be closed before breaking out a new lecture on how they were damning themselves.

Typical.

Cassandra stopped near front of the Chantry. Mother Giselle was leading a prayer for the coming battle, and dozens of people had taken a brief repose from their preparations to listen. However, what surprised her most was that both Sera and Finley were there, leaning against the poles that propped up Leliana’s tent, listening quietly.

When the Herald saw her watching them, she offered a small wave before returning her attention to the revered mother.

It was oddly comforting to see them there.

And it was always good to see that Sera and the Chargers’ demolitions expert, Rocky, weren’t attempting to resume their study of whatever that qunari explosive was that they’d been talking about when Cassandra had found them, just before she and the Herald had left to gather allies.

Thank the Maker for small mercies.

Listening, Cassandra found that the particular part of the Chant Mother Giselle was reciting was a fairly common one, chosen to reassure the most people with its familiarity, no doubt.

She listened to the prayer for a few minutes before a voice whispered in her ear, “I would have thought you of all people to be well fortified for the battle to come.”

Jumping, Cassandra turned to see Ser Yorric standing behind her, a friendly enough smile in place. “Though I suppose it’s also reassuring to know that even a lady such as yourself still takes comfort in the Chant of Light from time to time.”

She frowned, trying vainly not to let the flush that was rushing to her cheeks show. “I was looking for the commander.”

“I see,” Ser Yorric replied, striking a contemplative pose. “And just what must a man do to make the seeker seek him?”

“His job,” Cassandra stated, voice drier than she’d intended.

Though Ser Yorric put a hand over his chest as though he’d been wounded, his smile never faltered. “I would imagine it would be a lack of doing his job that would have you searching, myself.”

“Cullen is not shirking his duties.”

“As you say,” Ser Yorric replied, doing his best to don a serious expression. There was a glimmer in his eyes that he couldn’t extinguish. It made Cassandra uneasy. Why was he looking at her like that? “I was wondering, if you’ve a moment to spare from your search…”

“What is it?”

“The Breach quivers before us—”

“Hardly.”

“—on the verge of being sealed, as it is.” Ser Yorric pointed toward it, hardly dissuaded from his pestering. “After that eyesore is dealt with, what becomes of the Inquisition?”

“We will hunt those responsible.”

“Will there be a brief reprieve from responsibility, or is this an instantaneous transition?”

Cassandra appraised him carefully, trying to figure out what he was on about. “The lower ranks and soldiers will likely see some down time as we assess where we are and gather information.”

“But not the higher ranks?” Ser Yorric pressed.

“What is it you want?”

“A pleasant evening with a sister in arms, if she would be interested.”

Narrowing her eyes, Cassandra crossed her arms. “And what does that have to do with me?”

He stared at her, blinking twice before tilting his head. “Truly? Must I spell it out for you, my dear lady?”

There was no time for this. She needed to talk to Finley whilst the Herald was still easy to amidst all the commotion and preparations.

Turning away a bit too abruptly, Cassandra quickly skirted the crowd, leaving Ser Yorric behind at the edge of those gathered, unable to follow without making a scene. She thought she heard him call out as she hurried off, but told herself that she had too much to do to dally with him.

Even if he was good company.

He was skilled enough that he had joined in the personal guard that traveled with Finley and her entourage, and that had been a blessing when they’d snuck into Therinfal Redoubt. And he did have a lovely smile.

Perhaps once the dust had settled a little...

She’d walked as she slipped into her thoughts, not realizing how each step had drawn her nearer to Finley and Sera until Sera let out a sly laugh, a bit too smug and loud as she whispered to Finley, “Seeker’s seeking something.”

Maker, help her. Just how many of those jokes was she going to be subjected to in a single day?

Cassandra paused, eyeing the two, suddenly wondering if they were truly as innocent as she’d assumed. Tempting as it was to ask what they were up to, she simply arched her eyebrows. “Have either of you seen Cullen?”

As Finley shook her head, Sera snorted. “She’s seeing lots of him, wouldn’t you know?”

Cassandra’s hand found its way to her hip. “And what does that mean?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Finley hissed, her cheeks a few shades darker. She glared pointedly at Sera before reluctantly looking back at the seeker. “He…had a late start this morning. I’m sure he’s at the training grounds or the war room by now.”

Her voice was clearer than it had been in days, and the circles under her eyes looked a touch better, like she’d finally been able to get some decent sleep. While Cassandra was relieved to see it, she couldn’t hide her suspicion. “What have the two of you done to the commander?”

Sera let out a cackle this time, distracting more than a few of the parishioners. Mother Giselle continued on as though she hadn’t heard them. As Finley dragged Sera further away, so as not to gain a proper audience, Cassandra followed them. Sera decided when they were far enough away, twisting out of Finley’s grasp and grinning from ear to ear. “If you were looking for the commander, shoulda checked our Ladybits’ quarters. They were all snuggled up and cozy. Various pieces of clothing tossed about the room—”

“He took his boots off,” Finley snapped, almost frantic. “There was nothing more. I fell asleep on his shoulder, and he was too nice to move.” Before Cassandra could process what it was that either of them were saying, Finley grabbed Sera’s hand and began to drag her off. “We’ve potions to make.”

Even as she allowed herself to be dragged away, Cassandra could hear Sera making kissing noises. She stared after them in silence.

Were the whole lot of them going mad?

Or perhaps it was just her.

Or the fact that something so serious was coming up, and despite it all, everyone was desperate to find other things to occupy themselves with.

That last one made the most sense, and Cassandra settled on that as she returned her attention to finding Cullen, even as she realized she’d meant to talk to Finley about the mages before getting so distracted. Perhaps she could get Cullen to be the bearer of bad news instead—assuming Finley hadn’t already heard about the change in the situation.

Speaking of, she would need to find him first.

Cassandra had started her earlier search in the training grounds, and had been rather surprised to find him absent. His subordinates had seemed a little lost themselves, though they’d quickly figured out what to do when Cassandra had asked them why they were just standing around idly.

Not wanting to disrupt the sermon by walking through the crowd to check the war room, Cassandra headed back toward the training grounds to see if she could find Cullen. This time, he was there, giving orders and reviewing incoming reports. It was as though he hadn’t been missing only an hour before.

Everything seemed so completely normal…until he reached up and rubbed the side of his neck, as though it was paining him—as though he’d slept awkwardly. When she reached his side, she could see that he definitely had a crick in his neck. He kept tilting his head and rubbing at that same spot, desperate to be rid of a foreign ache.

“You should see Finley.”

Cullen nearly leapt out of his skin, whirling to stare at Cassandra with embarrassment plastering itself across his features. When Cassandra merely motioned to his neck, he checked himself. His cheeks donned a rosy hue of their own. “I, uh, that won’t be necessary. I’m fine.”

“Cullen,” Cassandra began, choosing to ignore that whatever Sera had said happened between him and Finley had been a bit more than what Finley had tried to downplay it to, “If you decline healing, it will set a poor example for the soldiers.”

“I just…” Cullen trailed off before accepting a report and getting a bit too engrossed in it for a bit too long. When he finally looked up, he’d regained at least some of his composure. “I don’t see a need to waste her magic on something so trivial.” 

It was a lie, and the both of them knew it.

However, Cassandra had more pressing issues to deal with, as did they all. Suppressing the urge to ask for more details about what had happened betwixt the commander and their Herald, she motioned toward the report still in his hand. “Have you been able to find anyone who had any news on…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to creepypasta-queen- for beta reading, and to everyone who reads!


	33. Best Laid Plans

Therinfal Redoubt had been truly terrifying.

While Vivienne was not one to show her fear—such a pointless display would only feed her enemies, and she was in no habit of giving them such leverage over herself—it was hard to keep one's reservations to oneself when there were beasts about that honed in upon magic and sought to unmake anything with it completely.

And there was no doubt in her mind that the red templars—a rather simplistic yet succinct name to call them—were anything but beasts. 

A real templar could be swayed with words. A real templar's fears could be addressed, mollified, manipulated. These _creatures_ had no such capacity for thought. They were mindless aggressors, with naught but a singular purpose in their heads: destroy all magic.

It had been unnerving to fight such things, and yet not as terrifying as it could have been. The creatures could not even be considered on par with demons. Demons might suffer that same tunnel vision, but they were still capable of grander schemes. Of dreams, so to speak. 

These red templars knew only how to destroy. Be it their enemies or themselves by pushing themselves beyond what they were physically capable of didn't seem to matter to them. So long as something ended, they had fulfilled their purpose. 

With the way they operated, it was easy to think of them as savage monsters.

Better, really. 

After all, there was no cure for that corruption. If there was still a mind trapped beneath all that red, Vivienne pitied it unconditionally. Pitied it and saw it her duty—hers and any other fighter worth their salt—to show the creatures a mercy.

She would not have wished such a dismal fate on any of her enemies. 

Not that she'd admit that.

No, pity and such things were easily misinterpreted, and she didn't have the time to deal with such petty misunderstandings. Let people think her an uncaring bitch if it helped them. She had her own work to do.

 Especially considering the disappearance of the mages.

They would definitely need to be found and _something_ done so that this ridiculous bloodshed came to an end—while the fighting had somewhat lulled with the Templar Order disbanded and the mages missing, Vivienne didn’t doubt that it would start up again if someone didn’t step in.

With the whole matter of the Conclave, the Breach, the red lyrium appearing more and more frequently, there was enough to do without her fellow mages making it harder for mage rights to move forward by terrifying the general populace and reinforcing those age old terrors of magic that had just been renewed.

It was like stabbing a wound that hadn’t even scabbed over yet.

Messy, detrimental, and tasteless.

While Vivienne had intended to serve as the example that mages could be trusted via her work with the Inquisition, to court public opinion by presenting herself and the Herald as respectable and dutiful, it seemed more would be required. It always was.

She wasn’t sure why it surprised her so much at this point. After all, if one wanted something done right…

However, disgruntled as Herald Finley was—and insistent as she was that they continue to let demons pour from the sky until their fellow casters could be found—the mages would have to wait. Regardless of what the Herald might feel, the Breach was the priority. Closing that would win them good favor with the non-magical majority of the world, and it would be an important victory. For the Inquisition, for mages, for Vivienne.

After their little adventure at Therinfal, Vivienne felt that she had a better feel for Herald Finley, and that she would be able to convince her to do what Commander Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast were having such difficulty with: march with the templars.

Hence her current search for the Herald. She might have an odd way of thinking, but Vivienne had a feeling that if she heard the arguments from a fellow mage, she might be more likely to consider them.

Honestly…

Vivienne had expected plans to go awry, but since the emergence of the red templars, the hiccups seemed excessive.

When Herald Finley had been taken, it had gone without saying that she would need to be rescued. Ser Yorric—a bright man, despite his easily formed infatuation with the seeker—had offered to escort Vivienne back to Haven before the dust had even finished settling. Under his logic, the red templars could interrupt magic and seemed quite obsessive when they discovered a magical opponent on the field. It was sound enough, she supposed, considering they had witnessed the way the monsters’ attention was drawn toward her in several attacks that followed the initial one, though none of those were nearly as chaotic or drawn out as the first. 

Upon hearing his offer, Vivienne had given him a cool, reassuring smile and pointed out that the templars, red or otherwise, had yet to interrupt a single one of her casts—it wasn’t completely true, but he had been too caught up in the fighting to know otherwise. While he'd paused to admit that her words rang true, she'd asked him to be a dear and keep a look out while she worked on some spellwork that might help them.

Honestly, she hadn’t had any actual spells in mind, but she hadn’t wanted him to think that she was at a loss for what to do.

In light of the fact that they had originally been going to see the mages, Vivienne had thought it prudent to make certain they could defend against any magical attacks. 

She and Herald Finley had been working on those fire wards on the way to Redcliffe, when they weren't going over etiquette and cultural oddities that seemed specific to Circle mages. They were slowly gaining a better understanding of how each other's magic worked, which led to ideas on how to alter those wards to affect others.

The dear Herald had seemed almost as though she wished to start her own Circle, in all her enthusiasm when it came to collaborating magically. It was a shame she'd never been taken to one. She would have made an excellent enchanter. When she, Solas, and Vivienne had been stuck on a part of the spell, she'd recruited one of the Iron Bull's mercenaries, an elf that went only by Dalish, to join their little endeavor. 

At first, both Cremisius and Dalish had come by, stating that it would help to have non-mage input on such creations. It had only taken a moment for Vivienne to realize that Dalish was adamant about not being a mage—she even had a staff that was actually shaped like a bow. It seemed ridiculous at best, but Vivienne didn't feel like arguing about something so trivial. If the apostate wished to deny something so obvious, let her.

And so, after the first day, it had been the four mages who had met once or twice, reviewing spells and discussing ways to alter them. 

Dalish's magic was more akin to Herald Finley's. Both had a wild, untrained feel to them, though they were still starkly different, day and night. And then neither of their spells were even remotely close to the way Solas’ worked.

That was the problem with wild magic, though, wasn't it? Without the proper training and guidance, it twisted and turned into something highly unpredictable, something highly un-shareable.

At least, Vivienne had always thought of it that way. It was one of the principles that the Circles taught, one that had seemed infallible.

Now, she wasn't so sure. 

Solas and Dalish had promised to keep working on the spells from their end, while Herald Finley and Vivienne had worked on it on the road. 

However, it hadn't been until after Herald Finley had been kidnapped that Vivienne had had her break through.

That first night after Herald Finley had been taken, Vivienne had been angry. Angry at herself for having been so careless as to let someone so precious be taken—truly, the Herald mattered more than the whole lot of the others she'd been traveling with—and she'd been angry at the rest of them that they'd allowed it to happen, as well.

The thought had briefly occurred to her that their opponents had simply been that formidable, but she'd dismissed it. If their guards had been doing their jobs, this wouldn't have happened.

That was the way it always went, wasn’t it?

If a lot of people had done their jobs properly, a great many inconveniences wouldn't be happening now. 

However, Vivienne could not control everything, as much as it would help. And so she'd gone to bed early. She hadn't wanted to have to keep her mask on—figurative as it might have been—all evening. Thus, at an appropriate hour that wouldn't make her look like she was retreating or hiding, she'd headed to bed and then quietly seethed. 

Again, she’d had plans go awry before, and a hiccup or misstep was hardly something she was unacquainted with.

Even so.

That things could go _this_ wrong...

Worse, there'd been nothing she could do to fix matters, and there was nothing she could do in the immediate time to further things along. There were no messages that could ruin a noble’s reputation before they could reveal something critical, no simple appearances that could squelch any dissonance. This was not court where she could play the Game she knew so well and come out on top. This was the woods, with mindless creatures having somehow managed to steal their most valuable asset.

Vivienne had considered a tracking spell, but she hadn't anything of the Herald's to use. Not even a hair.

All Herald Finley had left behind at the end of the day was her spell. Her fire ward.

And so, with nothing else to do that could be remotely construed as productive, Vivienne had turned to that. 

She'd gone over what had been reviewed to death when, as she was falling asleep, it had struck her. It wasn't that they needed to add clauses or twist phrases in the spell—the longer the spell the less stable it tended to be. It was simply that the subject needed to be changed. It had been attempted before, but not in the way she was thinking of. 

While she'd considered calling for a person to come assist her with her experiment, she didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to her magic. People were so easily panicked, and with the Herald already gone, nerves were bound to be on edge. 

Someone getting frightened and lashing out had been the last thing she needed.

So instead, she'd cast the fire ward on her pillow. Then, she held it in her hand and conjured flames. While her strong suit was frost, she did know enough to make the very basics of the other main elements, not that she typically used them. In all honesty, she’d had to check her spellbook before she even cast the spell.

The way her fire had danced around that cloth and wool without so much as singing it had been most pleasing. 

The fire ward could be cast upon others.

Her triumph had been short lived.

What good did that do her when it was templars she had to fight against rather than a wayward mage or two?

She'd gone to bed in a poor mood and woken up little better. 

Not that any of her traveling party had ever known. She'd kept her wits about her, stayed calm, and been every bit the mage she wanted them to see. Someone who could be trusted, someone they needn't fear so long as things stayed cordial. 

And then, despite it all, the ward had come in handy regardless.

After all, one of the few things red templars still seemed acutely aware of was magic.

So what better way to distract them from her than with what they sought? A warded pillar drove them crazy. Vivienne adjusted the ward to be self-contained so long as she wasn’t casting it on herself. That meant it would fall apart after a certain amount of the appropriate damage—i.e. fire to a fire ward—a little faster than if it was refreshed with an open channel to her mana, but it would not continuously draw on her mana pool.

That meant that the demons couldn't use the ward as a means to whisper in Vivienne’s ear, as well. She was sure the Herald would appreciate that.

Most of Herald Finley's spells seemed to have that sort of thing in mind. Be quick, connect to the Fade as swiftly as possible. Don't let the templars interrupt, and don't let the demons in.

It was a little grating how the Herald dismissed any idea that made spells longer to cast, but Vivienne could overlook that. 

After all, Herald Finley was used to combat magic, even if her spells were healing oriented. 

Using the fire ward, Vivienne been able to ward pebbles and toss them throughout the courtyard, leaving the templars confused as to where her spells came from, so long as she kept herself out of sight. 

It wasn't a perfect fighting style by any means—honestly it was somewhat shameful to need to hide—but it did keep them from all coming after her at once. After all, a stunlocked mage was a dead mage.

And some of the red templars could literally shoot red lyrium out of their bodies, which Vivienne had no doubt would lead to her death, without any mage healers present to assist if she was hit. 

And it helped that all of her companions expected mages to stand in the background and fight from a distance.

Knight enchanter that she was, she did not need to fall because of pride. She’d spent her whole life making sure of that, and if the demons couldn’t take her, she’d be damned to let a red templar do it.

Yes, despite the horrors that had abounded in Therinfal Redoubt and the horribly convoluted mess it had led to, she and the Herald had come out of that in what Vivienne would consider a victory. Both mages involved had maintained their calm, kept their spells on point, been useful. While Herald Finley had fallen into neurotic paranoia after the envy demon was dealt with—it felt like a poor man's Harrowing to Vivienne, and she planned to use it as such, should anyone ever try to object to the Herald's lack of a proper magical education—Herald Finley had managed to keep her voice even and look most confident in front of the templars while under what had to have been great duress.

That stress had followed her back to Haven. While Vivienne had tried to address it once or twice on the road, she’d been a little miffed to find that it had been the commander who had managed to allay some of Herald Finley’s panic in the end.

She supposed it didn’t matter who helped calm the Herald in the end, so long as she was able to close the Breach and keep from giving the people of Southern Thedas more reason to hate mages.

Still…Vivienne had hoped to have the opportunity to fine tune her feel for the woman.

Vivienne had noted long before this point that Herald Finley's magic was not confined to healing. The weakness of her initial spells—impressive as they might be to those without magic—that she used in the infirmary had been a red flag since the beginning, and it left her curious to know what else the wilds' mage could do. However, when they'd discovered her there with the templars, healing spells and shields falling from her lips so naturally, it was easy to buy into the lie.

While it would be necessary to untangle her secrets eventually, Vivienne had contented herself to leave them be for now. Herald Finley was no blood mage, and that was good enough for the time being. 

More than that, the mystery of the first ward had been broken, and the rest would likely fall in place easily now. They would be able to share their spells, ward their allies, and perhaps Vivienne might even learn why it was that Herald Finley needed a stone ward.

The fabled basilisk was said to dwell within the wilder places of the world, and it was rumored that their tears could cure most anything. 

If Herald Finley had a working stone ward, did that mean she had actually encountered such a creature?

The others said she had a fondness for animals…

How had it not turned her to stone before she could develop the ward, though?

Such were musings for another time. Or, more preferably, unnecessary should she be able to get the dear apostate to open up and learn to trust.

That would take time, but she'd manage. 

And things did have a way of turning up in her favor, didn't they? 

After all, despite the Herald's decisions and the best made attempts, it was the templars that they would be working with. A well-established organization. People that the common folk trusted—or had trusted, before the Templar-Mage war and the abandonment of the Chantry.

However, the common folk would see that the Inquisition would return the templars to good graces and in doing so, they would prove that there were more than a few trustworthy mages. It might seem backwards to a more reactionary mind, but to Vivienne, it was clear. This was the path that would lead to betterment for mages in the end. 

If they could be seen not as a force that threatened tradition, but one that upheld it, people would be more likely to welcome subtle changes. 

Change did not happen overnight. The mage rebellion had proved that. People did not feel anything but contempt for the fools who ran blindly through the world, casting fire on a whim, destroying everything in their path and then demanding they be treated with respect.

There was so much potential for the betterment of mages with the Inquisition, but it needed to be handled with care. 

Vivienne would make sure that it was. 

After the Breach was closed, of course.

As she turned a corner, she found Herald Finley sitting with Varric and a few of the Chargers. From the looks of it, they were exchanging stories of some sort—conquests or past victories. Slipping past the others, Vivienne elegantly sat beside Herald Finley, smiling when the Herald leaned toward her to hear her over the crackling flames and conversations. “I need to speak with you in private.”

Herald Finley frowned at that, glancing around the fire and then appraising Vivienne carefully. Ever so suspicious. “Now?”

When Vivienne nodded, she sighed and rose to her feet. No doubt Herald Finley knew what this was about. Likely, she’d already had quite a few people drawing her to the side to tell her to abandon her stubbornness in favor of a hasty victory.

The two of them moved quickly through the village, with Vivienne half a pace ahead of her, leading her through the bustle back to the Chantry.

“You’re a bright woman, so I won’t waste my breath tiptoeing around the subject,” Vivienne began when they were comfortably alone in a small corner of the Chantry, near where she preferred to stay. “You have a certain naivety when it comes to the world beyond your woods, my dear, which is no fault of yours, but I don’t think you see how what you’re doing is hurting rather than hindering. I know the best way that we can help the other mages, and it starts with closing that eyesore…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to creepypasta-queen- for beta reading and to everyone who reads :3


	34. The Venatori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to 0wallie0 on tumblr for beta reading this chapter for me and helping me to keep Dorian in character! Also, thank you to everyone who reads!

“Wait! Don’t kill hi—”

His voice cut off as an axe swung down with heavy finality into the man’s neck who was trying to crawl away, his white and black robes already badly charred. Even as the swarthy young man who’d cried out slid down a small embankment to where his former attacker lay, wearing a considerably more worn, yet still stylish cloak, the owner of the axe jerked it out of the ground where she’d embedded it.

“Vishante kaffas!” he hissed as he stumbled to a stop beside his dead countryman, hands in his dark, well-groomed hair. “Did you not hear me calling for you to wait?” When a grunt was the only reply to his demand, he raised his eyes, his brow still dipped down, staff gripped firmly in hand, glare in place.

It had little effect on the woman he was trying to intimidate.

She was an older dwarf, middle-aged almost. Her hair was cropped short around her head and stuck out in small brown tufts streaked with a bit of white, like down feathers. It was the only soft part of her, the rest of her stout, well-tanned frame nothing but muscles and hard lines.

The mage’s lips curled down at the corners, before he could stop himself. Maker’s balls, they probably looked like an inverse version of his meticulously curled moustache at this point.

That would be a sight.

“My dear dwarf, perhaps it was not so very obvious with the yelling and running, but I _needed_ him. _With_ his head attached.”

“That may be, but the thing is, _I_ just need _one_ of you.” The dwarf hauled her weapon into her hands and was lunging toward the mage before he knew what was happening. With more curses, he darted back, flames flickering at his fingertips. He tossed a few fireballs about to make it so that the dwarf had no clear path to him and then angled himself so that she couldn’t see when he shifted his magic. As he curled his fingers toward his palm, dark purple runes lit up and flickered in the air before seeming to disperse.

Just as the dwarf figured out a way through his fire maze, arms wrapped around her, hauling her backwards with a bit too much force and nearly tossing her into the flames.

Corpses could be so indelicate.

A dead, headless man gripping her and holding her off her feet was enough to startle her into dropping her axe. The mage calmed the flames a bit so that he could walk over to her. “Now then, let us start this again, as I fear our first impressions may have been somewhat wanting. I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. I have been trying to find out what these fools are up to, and you, dear lady, just killed my lead.”

“Really?” the dwarf replied, eyes narrowed as her fingers dug into the lifeless flesh holding her.

“Oh, come now. I realize my accent may be unfamiliar, but surely you can make out what I am saying with those elegantly large ears of yours?”

“All the vints coming through here, messing everything up, and when I finally catch one, you just _happen_ to not be with the rest of them?”

Dorian considered pointing out that _she_ hadn’t quite caught _him_ , but chose not to provoke her. After all, she might be useful. “A lot of my countrymen have been coming through here, you say?”

With a rather pronounced eye roll, the dwarf abruptly swung her weight, toppling herself and the corpse forward, and using the momentum to all but fling the dead man Dorian’s way. He narrowly dodged the body, instead stumbling to the side a few paces.

When he’d managed to regain sure footing, the dwarf had her axe in hand again. However, after appraising him, she relaxed her stance, dug a rag out of a small pouch on her hip, and began to wipe off her weapon. When she saw he was still watching her, she offered him the bloody rag. “You wanna save it for your spells?”

Straightening up a little despite himself, Dorian gave her a sarcastic smile. “Trying to win me over with gifts of poor taste will gain you no favor.” He paused, his grin becoming a bit more genuine. “Now, a good bottle of wine is another matter entirely.”

“If you say so.” The dwarf rolled her eyes again, finally shouldering her axe. “I’m Bree Cadash, here on behalf of the Cadash cartel. Your _countrymen_ have been giving us problems.”

“Well, ruining things for the south is one of my people’s favorite pastimes.” Dorian shrugged. “You said there were a bunch of them through here. Recently?”

“They’ve been coming and going,” Bree offered. “Small groups. That’s why I came out here alone. Thought I’d lop off a few heads, get a few answers. Wasn’t expecting…that.”

“That,” Dorian echoed, glancing around their surroundings as though some sign might pop up to further explain what ‘that’ was.

Bree arched her eyebrows, and he quirked one of his. “You really aren’t with them, are you?”

“If I were, I would not be out here setting them on fire.”

After considering that for a moment, Bree nodded. “Fair enough.” She brushed a bit of dust off of her armor before pointing her thumb over her shoulder. “If you’re really looking for the rest of the vints, they’re that way.”

Dorian’s mouth twisted to the side. “You’re just telling me this?”

“Consider it my act of kindness for the day.” She paused and then added, “After all, if you aren’t with them, you’re useless to me. And I’d rather you go on your way and let me go on mine.”

“Perhaps we could help one another.”

“You gonna tell me how these guys are getting their hands on lyrium without going through Orzammar?”

“There is Kal-Sharok—”

“Their source is in Ferelden.”

When Dorian didn’t reply immediately, she turned away, waving one hand. “Have a good life. However short it’s going to be.”

“Well, if you show me to the rest of them, I’d wager I could get information for you.” When she displayed her thinning patience clearly, he grinned. “After all, why would there be a vint all the way out here unless he was working with them? They’ll tell me things, I’ll tell you.”

Though he could see the refusal on the tip of her tongue, something seemed to flit through the dwarf’s mind, and she abruptly stopped, crossing her arms and tilting her head back a little, eyes slightly narrowed. “You know what? I will show you where they are. I think it might be worth my time after all.”

And with that, she turned and started a rather swift pace through the woods that started not far from the clearing they’d met in.

As Dorian followed, idly wondering how someone with such short legs could move so quickly and quietly when in such heavy armor, his mind wandered back to the rebel mages. They were not going to be particularly pleased with him, especially if they assumed he’d left them to fulfill his original offer that they’d so quickly turned down.

Seeing as very few were typically pleased with his endeavors, it didn’t bother him much. He’d offered to go to the Inquisition on their behalf, and Grand Enchanter Fiona had forbid him from leaving their little stronghold, as though she had any authority over him to do so.

She didn’t want him to be the envoy for the rebel mages, which was fair enough. If he needed to be represented at the magisterium, he wouldn’t want some unknown southern mage there on his behalf, either.

Fortunately for all parties involved, Dorian had lost interest in that idea almost as soon as he’d offered. Truly, it had been a blessing that they hadn’t wanted him as their voice, rich and perfect as his was.

No, Dorian had more pressing issues, involving his countrymen and whatever fool plot was afoot. He’d been quite happily living at the bottom of a bottle in Val Royeaux when his old mentor had sent word to him that he was in Ferelden of all places and would love for Dorian to come assist him with something.

Perhaps it had been the wine, but Dorian had gone. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been for his old friend, Gereon Alexius and his son, Felix, to be in the middle of trying to persuade the rebelling mages in the south to indenture themselves to Tevinter.

And by persuade he meant that they had the mages basically trapped in the ruins of Old Redcliffe—some little village that had been all but destroyed during the Blight, years ago—and were sort of demanding that they could either surrender to Tevinter or to the templars who had been hunting them for…

How long had the mage/templar war been going on down south?

The whole ordeal had been surreal, and he’d rather wondered if he wasn’t still drunk.

Felix had gotten him to the side, though, before Dorian could greet Alexius and ask him what in Andraste’s flaming ass was going on.

Madness was the answer.

Of course.

Maker forbid a Tevinter magister involve themselves with something pleasant. Have to keep that reputation tarnished without hope for redemption.

Honestly, though, it _was_ troubling.

Especially when it became clear that something much bigger was going on. Alexius was not the leader here, but instead some Elder One, and if Dorian had learned anything during his time in Minrathous, it was to never trust a mage who gave themselves grandiose names like that.

He and Alexius had once joked about such banal things together. Now it seemed that his mentor was falling prey to the allure of power that all magisters succumbed to.

Such a pity.

While Dorian and Felix hadn’t gotten the complete story, they had figured out that whatever was going on was bad, particularly for the poor rebel mages.

That’s when Felix had admitted that they’d managed time magic and a few other things that had made Dorian again question his sobriety.

He would have preferred this to have been a drunken stupor he could just wake out of, yet he did not drink nearly as heavily as he would need to for his mind to come up with _this_.

That they were purposely trying to keep the mages from doing…something was all the prompting he needed to help enable them to do whatever it was, as he doubted it could be worse than anything going on at present.

After all, there was already a hole in the sky. What could be worse?

Therefore, it had been obvious that the only practical thing to do was to take Alexius’ notes on time travel and hand it over to the mages he sought to drag into servitude. While the spell was highly unstable, the grand enchanter had managed to get it to work once—with Dorian’s genius mind and the help of a stolen Tevene trinket, of course.

Even then the result hadn’t been anything remotely close to what they’d been hoping for. Rather than move through time, they’d simply managed to stop it for a little while.

One couldn’t truly say how long as time was no longer in motion, but the mages had taken advantage of their immeasurable moment to put some distance between themselves and the ‘Venatori’, as his countrymen were calling themselves.

From there it had been a bit of cat and mouse. The mages ran, the Venatori chased. There had been talk of going to the Inquisition, as rumor was that the Herald of Andraste was on their side—another mage with a rather larger than life title that didn’t impress Dorian much—but that had fallen through when reports began coming in that the templars were already flocking there.

Grand Enchanter Fiona had decided that it would be wisest to find somewhere safe to stay first—somewhere out of the Venatori’s and templars’ reach—and then to figure out where to go from there.

That had led them, oddly enough, to Kinloch Hold.

After all, no one expected to find rebelling mages flocking _to_ a Circle. And one with such a sordid history, at that. Dorian had only heard whispers of what had gone on there, but it was enough. Just coming near the damned place left one chilled to the soul. How they expected to stay there for any length of time and maintain their sanity was beyond him.

But they had holed themselves up and been intent on fending off the Venatori when said pursuers quite abruptly lost interest.

Which did not bode well at all.

Everyone had been expecting some sort of attack, something horrendous, with demons and blood and all that ritualistic nonsense that went into all the proper Tevinter horror stories.

However, Dorian and Felix had known better. This was not right. For the Venatori to be pulling back as they were, something had happened, something big.

The duo had managed that pesky time spell one last time to attempt to make it back to Redcliffe, so see about finding out the Venatori’s plans.

It was probably for the best that the spell went awry. They barely made it across Lake Calenhad before Felix collapsed, thus ending the spell. He’d never been a strong mage, but he’d insisted that he could help—with his father, if not the actual casting and channeling casting, though he had put in some effort there, too—and Dorian hadn’t been about to leave him behind to receive the chiding of a lifetime from the Grand Enchanter.

They’d absconded with that same old artifact that amplified magic and headed back. Of course the relic had cracked upon the interruption of the spell, the strain of having just one mage using it too much.

That’s always how such things went, after all.

Seeing as it would be a fool’s errand to attempt to use the trinket again, Dorian had left Felix in the care of a rather lovely tavern wench just outside of the hold, fretted that Fiona might get ahold of Felix after all, and had headed off on his own to be the valiant hero no one would ever believe him to be. After all, only villains came from Tevinter.

And now here he was, following a dwarf through the woods. A dwarf who seemed to be purposely leading him through every mud puddle in the entire damned forest.

He would remember this.

Quite abruptly, Bree came to a halt and held up a hand for Dorian to be quiet, as though he’d been belting out catchy tavern jingles before. He followed her with extra care, however, weaving through the underbrush and staying low.

As he came close enough to peek through the trees to see the camp she’d brought him to, his jaw dropped.

His shock was such that he barely even heard as Bree said, “Your face was definitely worth it.”

Dorian’s gaze swept one way and then the other, taking in the sight before him. This was not the little camp he’d been expecting.

Maker save them, the Venatori was an entire army.

And from the looks of it, they were on the march…toward the Breach.

And the Inquisition.

“I need you to deliver a message for me.”


	35. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta readers, creepypasta-queen- and 0wallie0 on tumblr! And thank you to everyone who reads :3

"Make that thing hear you." 

 _That_ had been the advice he'd given her. At the time, it had felt sound. They’d been cornered, trapped. It was a scenario Cullen was all too familiar with, and one that had left him teetering on the verge of falling completely into his memories of Kinloch Hold.

He’d felt like he’d been kneeling in that barrier all over again, only able to watch as those around him died. It had taken almost all of his will to convince himself he wasn’t. He had grasped to the present frantically, desperate not to let what had happened before repeat itself.

They would fight harder this time. They would fight, and they would not die by inches stolen from them, but by their own terms.

It would be better that way, surely.

It hadn’t occurred to him that they could really get away, even as they made their way through that mountain pass, led by Chancellor Roderick and an odd fellow who’d shown up just in time to warn them what they were up against as it crashed down upon them. Cullen still scarcely believed what he’d been told.

It was bleak. Horribly so. And between archdemons and impossible odds, there didn’t seem to be a way _to_ survive.  

And even when hope dared to show its face, part of him still hadn’t been able to believe that they could get away. And part of him still kept whispering that _everyone_ wasn’t making it out.

The whole while that he’d been coordinating the evacuation, his mind kept going back to the Herald.

 _Make that thing hear you._ When he’d told her that, she had met his gaze without even a hint of fear for the first time since they'd met and simply nodded. She'd drawn her bow, nocked an arrow, and headed out. Even when they’d approached the Breach, she’d been nervous—so nervous that her quiet complaints about moving forward without the rebel mages had been quelled. But as they’d fallen under attack…. It was the first time she truly seemed like more than just a misplaced apostate.

That moment had seemed to bring to light a lot of firsts. 

It was the first time she hadn’t needed persuading or reassurance to go into battle.

In that moment, it was the first time that Cullen had really, truly seen her. Her hair had been wild in the winds, tangling and untangling, sweat and blood and snow already dampening locks. That fire in her eyes had seemed untamable, like she was something out of a legend. Her stance had been calmer, almost relaxed of all things.

It was like she was used to fighting against odds she couldn’t win. Like she expected it.

Part of his heart broke at the thought. He couldn’t explain why, but as she’d turned away, he’d thought back to only nights before, when she’d been so terrified, curling up next to him and falling asleep from sheer exhaustion, her head nestled against his shoulder and a children’s storybook of all things cradled in her lap.

She had been the one who needed protecting then. She’d seemed so vulnerable, so terrified that it had made Cullen wonder how she’d actually managed to survive going up against a demon at all. He’d never seen a mage leave their Harrowing as shaken as she’d been. He could only imagine how she’d been right after encountering the creature.

Or had it been the presence of the templars that had her frightened so?

Even he had to admit that she had a right to be afraid.

Fear could be contagious, and if it had spread to the wrong person, to someone who drew their sword too quickly…

He’d nearly drawn _his_ as he’d gone into her hovel after hearing her scream, expecting assassins or demons or…

However, something had stayed his hand. When he’d seen her, he hadn’t seen a susceptible mage, a creature that might be losing herself to something vile inside her head. Instead, she’d looked much as he imagined _he_ might after waking up from a particularly jarring nightmare. He’d thought of how she’d looked like she hadn’t slept in days, and it had been obvious that she was avoiding her dreams. Somehow, his mind hadn’t gone to demons as he’d seen her there, shaking and holding herself. It was almost as though someone had whispered in his ear that she was more like him than either of them realized.

The next thing he’d known he’d been comforting her.

It hadn’t been until he’d woken up the next morning that his mind had wandered back to the possibility of possession. Even as he’d looked down at her, wondering if they could actually know if the envy demon had done something lasting to her—surely the templars she’d been holed up with would have noticed, though…they’d missed the envy demon itself, so that was hardly reassuring—Sera had trounced in and started a ruckus, crowing about how ‘naughty’ they were.

It had been embarrassing, but Cullen had also been a bit on edge for the rest of that morning, until he’d seen the Herald again. He’d been in the war room when she slipped in to take a look at where the other reported rifts were—her plan had been to keep working on the smaller rifts until the mages could be located, though First Enchanter Vivienne had somehow managed to get her to agree to march on the Breach without them.

When she’d seen him, her cheeks had flushed, and while she couldn’t meet his gaze, hers had kept darting back toward him, watching him as though trying to figure out what he was about.

It had been so…innocent.

He’d been ashamed to have even wondered if she could have been possessed.

And as far as facing off against a demon that powerful…he hadn’t fared so well during his own, twisted ‘Harrowing’, had he?

That any mage could walk away from such a test without breaking down completely was…

He tried not to think about it.

As he’d gotten lost in their conversation, Cullen hadn’t been able to help a small smile as they’d discussed the different points on the map—he’d made a dumb joke about Lake Calenhad looking like a bunny and had been surprised at how enthusiastically she’d agreed.

It was during that conversation that he had first forgotten she even had magic. She hadn’t been a mage, just a colleague, working with him.

It was strange to see her in so many different lights.

From paranoid and mistrusting to vulnerable to innocent to…fierce.

As she’d turned her back to him after his words of ‘wisdom’, her slender frame to be the last barrier between an archdemon and their people, he’d felt an odd tug in his chest. It was just for a second, and then the world came crashing back into focus, but still…

It was ridiculous, but he’d felt like if anyone could keep that unholy dragon at bay, maybe it was her.

Those brilliant eyes of hers had been resolute as she snapped out a few quick orders, calling for the Iron Bull, Warden Blackwall, and Solas to come with her. Why those three had been beyond him. Sera had nearly gone after them—she actually might have in all honesty, as Cullen could barely keep track of everyone during the chaos of trying to retreat—but by the time he'd been directing people through the pass, she'd been there, shooting arrows into any of the Venatori who tried to block their path with a sharp curse and tears pricking her eyes.

Ser Delrin Barris had assisted with the lead along with Leliana and Josephine, following Chancellor Roderick and the newcomer—he hadn’t gotten any names, though he knew the man was a mage. Tevinter, from the sound of him. Suspicious as that was, they were hardly in a place to reject any assistance.

Cassandra and Cullen had sought to keep things moving, to keep everyone calm. A few soldiers offered to go back to help the Herald, but Cullen ordered them not to. He needed them guarding the civilians.

He left a small contingency in a more dangerous area, to provide cover for anyone coming up late—and with the vain hope that when the mountain did fall, they might be able to help the Herald make it up the pass, somehow.

It was foolish and impractical, and the strategist in him knew better. Everyone did.

All five of the Herald's templars chose to stay there, as well as many of the Chargers. Cassandra had remained behind to lead them.

While Cullen had wanted to remain with them, there were too many lives at stake. He couldn't put words to why he'd wanted to stay, why a part of him wanted to just charge back into certain death to make sure that the Herald survived. 

He'd felt like he was the one trapped down in Haven. Every chance he got, he looked back, pretending it was to take inventory of what they'd managed to bring with them and who was where—in part it was—but what he'd really been searching for was where the fighting seemed to be in the valley, where the archdemon was, and if he could somehow make out where she was. 

It wasn't right. Of everyone here, she'd been the only one who hadn't volunteered to join. Every last inquisition member had been recruited or turned up at Haven's door to help set the world right.

Every one of them had chosen this path, except for her. So how was it right that she be the one left behind? 

Though... when she'd hurried from the Chantry, he'd seen a shift in her magic as well as her demeanor. As a Venatori had come lurching forward, Cullen had sworn he'd seen roots stretch up from the ground to catch the man's legs, jerking him to his knees and interrupting whatever spell had been on his lips. The Iron Bull had beheaded the mage before he could recover.

Then she had been out of sight, along with her entourage. 

Cullen had prayed to the Maker and his Bride that they would watch over their champion, and had turned to his own tasks. 

"Ser? Should I fire the signal?" 

Cullen held his hand out, staying the archer beside him. "Wait. Let's give those retreating a few more minutes."

Never mind that each minute made the Herald’s escape less likely. Every minute longer that she had to face off against that beast and whatever was controlling it—there had been whispers of some sort of sentient darkspawn, though Cullen hadn’t gotten a good look at the creature during the fighting.

The man beside Cullen, an archer with umber skin who had been with them at both attempts to close the Breach, hesitated and then nodded. His eyes scanned the lower parts of the valley, fingers curled around his bow, ready to fire the flare at a word. 

Cullen wanted to wait for the Herald, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? She would be waiting for their signal, and wouldn’t be able to even start her retreat until the avalanche itself was bearing down upon her.

A little voice in his head was screaming at how unfair it was. He should be the one down there, sacrificing himself for the cause. Not her.

She didn’t _deserve_ this.

Even as he tried to block out that little voice that berated him for not going back, for simply standing about on a mountainside watching the damned scenery, for standing around and letting someone die in front of him _again_ , someone who hadn’t _chosen_ this path, he caught movement in the trees, heading in their direction, just a little after the furthest of the groups he’d planned on waiting for.

He signaled for the archers to be ready. If it was more Venatori pursuing them, it would be a miserable fight. The surviving civilians were making their way up the path, and there was very little room to fight without getting them caught in it.

However, as the first figure broke through the trees, Cullen couldn't help a small frown. 

The Iron Bull had two of his smaller Chargers tossed over his shoulders as he headed toward them with long, loping strides. Warden Blackwall and Cassandra were on his heels. The warden was missing his shield and helm, but he was intact.

Of course he was intact. He'd been fighting with their Herald, after all. 

Solas and the others followed in their wake. 

Cullen felt his unease growing. They were supposed to be supporting the Herald. They were supposed to be protecting the trebuchet. How were they retreating already when the trebuchet hadn't been fired? Had the Herald decided it was a useless endeavor?

Even as a bit of anger flickered through him—the damned archdemon would just follow them without something to slow it down—he realized that he couldn’t see her with the rest of them, and that anger quickly changed into dread.

They couldn't have left her behind...

By herself?

"Fire the signal," Solas commanded with an authority undue to him when he drew close enough for them to hear. 

Without seeming to understand the order had been given from the wrong person, the archer did as he was told. The others kept moving forward, up the mountain trail.

Cullen stood where he was, watching the trebuchet, fear gnawing away at his gut.

There was a long, drawn out, indefinable moment where nothing happened, and he wondered if the Herald had fallen in battle, abandoned to insurmountable odds.

If that was the case, why hadn’t one of the others stayed behind to fire the trebuchet? How could they have retreated?

And then the projectile was in the air, soaring high over Haven and into the mountain above. A thunderous crack echoed out. The mountain rumbled, the snow barreled down.

“Ser, we have to keep moving.”

Cullen shrugged off whoever had put their hand on his shoulder, gaze glued not on the encroaching snow, but on Haven’s outskirts, where the shot had come from.

It was preposterous to think he could see her from this far away, but he searched the frozen landscape for a spot of bright orange regardless.

He could see the dragon near the trebuchet.

His heart hurt.

And then the snow overtook that point, and the dragon fled.

A brilliant flash of light met the heavy wave of ice.

White and pure and...

And then it was gone. Extinguished in the curtain of ice and rock and cold that swept past.

He tried to watch the spot, to see if something otherworldly and strange—something magical—might happen. Perhaps the light would break through the snow, and they'd be able to make someone out or...

Nothing happened.

The snow continued to rumble down, consuming all that was left of Haven, burying the Inquisition's birthplace and their Herald. The archdemon roared as it soared out of the way, something clutched within its talons. 

So the avalanche had kept their enemy from taking Haven, but it hadn't dealt a serious blow. Their enemies would walk away from this battered but not beaten, with the symbol of their cause intact.

The Inquisition...

Cullen finally whirled away from the sight, hurrying those at the tail end of the evacuation to keep moving, and slipping through the bedraggled masses until he could find the Herald’s entourage. When he reached them, he found confusion had already gripped them.

Warden Blackwall was searching the crowd, bewildered. "Where is Finley?" 

Cassandra straightened up, stopping as those around them kept the pace moving. "She was with us when we started up the slope." 

"How could she have been?” Cullen snapped despite himself, when he was sure he was in earshot. “Who would have triggered the trebuchet? How could you have _left_ her?"

"She set up a spell she could trigger from a distance. There was no sense in all of us getting buried," the Iron Bull started. His eye widened as he spoke, as though somehow that hadn't occurred to him. "She said _all_.”

Warden Blackwall shook his head. “She was with us...wasn't she? I can remember her running beside me. I would not have left her alone for that." The warden looked around and then started shoving his way forward in the group, toward Solas, who hadn’t deemed the confusion necessary to partake in. “Did you see what happened to the Herald?”

Solas barely stalled his steps. "We must keep moving. She wanted it this way." 

Cullen felt anger twisting inside him. "What did you do?"

"What Finley asked of me. I got the others to safety. Before the avalanche." Solas stood up a little straighter. 

"You...messed with their heads to get them to think she was there?" 

Solas snorted derisively. "Of course not. She made an illusion. I pretended it was her. It only takes one person to fire a trebuchet. She saw no reason for all of us to be buried." 

Cullen wanted to smack Solas back down the trail, to where the rushing snows might still reach him, but it was pointless. It wouldn't help anyone to get rid of so apt a healer. 

Warden Blackwall looked like he might head back himself. “But if she stayed by the trebuchet when it was fired…”

“And just what can a warden do in this situation? The archdemon is gone. Do you think you can dig her out?” Solas hissed. He’d looked ready to leave it at that, though when he took into stock the expressions around him, his own grew marginally gentler. “…She is a skilled mage. If there is anyone who can save Finley, it is Finley herself. Let us trust that she knew what she was doing.”

Despite the urge to go back, Cullen allowed himself one final glance back before gripping Warden Blackwall’s shoulder and nodding for him to keeping moving forward.

Cold as Solas’ words seemed, he was right.

Even if they went back, it wasn’t like there was anything they could do. The snow had already overtaken where she’d been, and it wasn’t as though they could climb the oncoming wall of rushing debris and hunt through it to find her.

She’d afforded them this chance to escape, perhaps at the cost of her own life. It would be foolish, and oddly selfish to throw that away.

That ache in his chest drummed in time with his heart, making his feet heavy even as he told them to march forward, that there were people who needed their commander.  

Maybe…

If the Maker had truly chosen her...if she really was Andraste's Herald...

Cullen was a bit surprised by how desperately he wanted her to be safe. 

It was a breathless desire that gripped him, whispering possibilities of ways she could have escaped danger, each more impractical than the last.

It felt useless to entertain what ifs when there was no way to make them reality. For all the power his position afforded him, there was nothing he could do to fix this.

Nothing at all.


	36. Desire and Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers, 0wallie0 and creepypasta-queen- for looking this chapter over! Extra thanks to 0wallie0 for the beautiful drawing of Finley :D
> 
> Also, heads up for demon fuckery and mind games.

The tang of iron filled his mouth, the smell of rotten flesh flaring in his nostrils with every breath. Cullen tried not to think, not to breathe. However, despite his best attempts, he could not free himself of his senses. As a pained scream filled the air, a hiccupped sob shuddered through him, forcing its way out of his mouth and allowing that acrid taste of death to coat his tongue.

Everyone was dead or dying. His hands shook. How long had it been since he’d had lyrium? If he could just find a scrap, maybe he could fight his way out of this damned barrier, out of this miserable tower, to…

To what?

He felt cold creeping through his joints, and something in the back of his mind whispered that that wasn’t right. It hadn’t been cold in the tower.

Not when the abominations had held it.

No, the tower had been oddly warm, the crackle of magic fueling some ethereal heat, making him swelter in his armor, a sweet, promising whisper that things would be better, if he would just remove a few pieces of bulky, unwanted metal.

He’d almost taken a gauntlet off, once, when he’d seen the damned thing watching him from the corner of the room, hiding behind twisted mounds of flesh, its face giddy with anticipation that it was finally wearing him down.

He hadn’t dared give in to the temptation after that.

He’d known the man who was there with him in the end. Surana. An admirable elven mage who’d gone through his Harrowing in record time.

Record time and he’d still fallen to the demons.

Or had he been one of the many to give themselves over willingly when Uldred returned from Ostagar?

Maybe he hadn’t survived his Harrowing at all, instead letting something in. Perhaps Cullen and the others had been too naïve, allowing a demon to walk the halls in place of a mage, when they _should_ have been able to see it.

Most abominations were mad with power and the confines and freedoms of the waking world, but every now and then one of them could be so…subtle. They contained their powers, keeping their bodies from melting, allowing themselves to work toward some ends without catching immediate attention.

Jowan had been a blood mage. He’d been a close friend to Surana, so it was little surprise that they’d both tumbled down that path.

Surana had enjoyed playing with Cullen, asking him questions about his appreciation of mages’ abilities, whispering that things would be so much easier if he’d just admit that there were simple things in life that he wanted.

The words that had spilled from that abomination’s lips…

Cullen had heard of desire demons, been taught about all the different ones, how their different aspects made each dangerous in a different way, but to be taunted like this had been…

He looked around the room as another chill went through him. Was one of the mages toying with him again? He wouldn’t succumb. If they wanted to kill him, they’d have to do it with force. No tricks.

He wouldn’t let himself be tricked.

If they had to take the shield down to kill him, maybe, just maybe, he could take a few of them out with him. He could avenge those who had fallen. He could stop just a few from getting out of the tower.

Where was Knight-Commander Greagoir? Why had reinforcements not come?

Why was this happening?

Like that was a real question. He knew why.

They’d been too lenient with the mages. They’d let them do as they pleased, and the result was—

No.

Maker, no.

This wasn’t.

This wasn’t him.

It _had_ been him, yes, but not anymore. He didn’t want this, to be so consumed by hatred, to be so blinded to everything but anger and pain. He wanted to forgive and to be forgiven, impossible as it seemed.

He wanted to be good.

_Now that is an admirable desire. So few want such simple things. Normally its riches and virgins._

Gulping, Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. He wouldn’t listen. Something in his head whispered that this wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be. Something else whispered that it was.

There was much wrong in this world, but no. Not all mages were monsters. When the abominations had attacked, so many of the mages in the tower had tried to fight with the templars. So many had stood against their corrupted brethren.

And it hadn’t been enough.

Their bodies were scattered along with the templars, evil winning out, with power and the sheer ability to outlast…

No, no, no.

There was good in the world. There was…good.

He could…he could help it. He would help good win out over all that writhing corruption.

_An even better sentiment._

It was cold.

He welcomed the cold. It was something he should have remembered, something that pulled him out of Kinloch Hold, something that reminded him that something more had happened.

What had it been?

Why couldn’t he leave this place?

Why couldn’t _it_ leave _him_?

Why couldn’t he outrun the sounds of his friends dying, pleading for mercy as they’d long since given up on pleading for life.

Cullen wondered if death wasn’t the better option.

Would it make everything quiet in his head?

_Now, now. None of that. I happen to need you alive._

Cullen’s breath caught in his throat, gaze moving around the room, trying to find the speaker. He recognized the way the words echoed in his head without seeming to have a source.

But there was always a source, even if the monsters didn’t show themselves.

_While I understand that you mortals have that baffling need for empathy and a gentle touch, I really do not have the time for hand-holding. You need to move past this, if only for a night or two._

“Begone, demon,” Cullen whispered.

_Have you already been out of the Order so long that you’ve forgotten? You’re not a mage, dear commander. Your words mean nothing to me. Despite your fancy title, you are powerless._

…Commander?

The word rang familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It was important to him. It was a chance at redemption, at finding himself, at being the man he’d wanted to be before everything had gone wrong. It was…

This was a trick.

_If this were any other day, I’d be content to leave you here to wallow in your self-loathing and pity. However, I’ve interests which need addressing, and no way to do so without a little…other-worldly help, and she’s not fond of when I make…arrangements to come myself. You’ll have to do._

“Get out of my head!”

 _I could make_ you _a deal. Oops. That’s not the thing to say to you, is it?_

“Get out!” Cullen roared.

He rose to his feet within the confines of his prison, looking around with new vitriol growing in him. He could remember this more clearly. He could remember that the demons had tried to make deals with him, offering him promises of love, home, heroic deeds known by all—he’d been such a foolish boy, wanting to play the dutiful knight, the valiant hero.

But he’d never succumbed.

They had broken every one of his friends before him, starved him, cut him off from lyrium, tormented his mind relentlessly, but he had held fast.

Held out until help had come.

This had ended.

The walls of the tower were melting away into nothing, his dreams shifting out of focus and settling into some nondescript emptiness that wouldn’t haunt him when he woke up.

For the briefest of moments, a sense of relief washed over him. Whatever the demons may have sought, they’d never gotten it from him. He’d been strong enough to withstand their tortures, their games.

_It’s not always a game, commander. My little lamb is lost in the snow, and she’s so stubborn that I can’t help her myself._

Turning around, Cullen’s entire body went rigid. The world was twisting aimlessly around them, without purpose or direction, but there, barely a hair’s breadth from his nose, was something he had hoped very much to never see again.

The desire demon tilted her head, inky black eyes appraising him with a look of…apathy? Contempt?

What game was this?

 _Tell me, commander_. Its lips moved, though the voice still didn’t seem to come from within it, instead echoing out from all around. _How is it right that you get to walk away from Haven when others who never asked for this are damned to wander the snow?_

“Begone,” he whispered, his voice barely managing to scratch out of his throat. “You have no power over me.”

 _Perhaps not, but I think we both know guilt has you wrapped around its little finger._ The demon held up her hand, her pinky extended so that her long, wicked nail seemed like it was ready to gouge into his flesh. _I won’t bother offering to take that pain away. Even if you would take the deal, I’m not that generous. Instead, let me ask you this: Can you really sit here while she dies?_

For a breath, Haven’s Chantry reformed around him, and he was staring at the Herald as she listened to his words, that strange, unfaltering resolution settling over her features.

_I won’t debate whether you deserve a horrible fate or not, but does she?_

“I will not be tricked by you, monster,” Cullen hissed.

He could swear the demon rolled its eyes at him.

_You are as belligerent a child as she is. That is fine. I am quite good at playing the villain._

Kinloch Hold began to reform around them, taking on the look it had borne before it had fallen. Cullen’s gaze swept their surroundings, panic gripping him. This was different from his usual nightmares.

_It looks like you get a deal after all. You find my little lamb, or I promise to make these memories so much worse._

The screams started from down the hall as the first mages fell to abominations, unable to control the demons they’d let in.

Footsteps pounded on stone.

The screams grew louder.

Wet, awful noises of impalement and being simply torn apart echoed down the corridor that seemed impossibly long.

It was getting closer, closer, closer.

Cullen jolted forward hard enough that he nearly careened face first into the snow. Gulping down breaths of air, it took him a moment to realize where he was.

He’d taken refuge near some heavy rocks to wait out the storm. He’d been with a few others, watching for signs of the attacking army or archdemon.

As it occurred to him that he’d fallen asleep, he found a thin blanket at his feet in the snow that had built up near him as the storm had raged on. He’d forgone the tents—there were others who needed them more—and had sought to stay vigilant.

He couldn’t even do that right…

Pausing as he realized that, cold as it was, the snow had stopped, a thought abruptly struck him.

The snow had stopped.

If there was even a sliver of a chance of finding Herald Finley, it would be now, while the sky was clear—save for the remnants of that abominable Breach, of course.

As he somehow found the strength to move his stiff, frozen limbs and call for others to help him assemble a search party, a little part of him couldn’t shake a feeling of dread as he tried to remember what it was that had woken him.

Finally, as Sera, Warden Blackwall, and a few others agreed to go with him, he pushed it from his mind.

It had just been another nightmare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads!


	37. Past and Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to 0wallie0 and creepypasta-queen- for beta reading!
> 
> A warning for this chapter, there is mention and memories of child abuse.

For the first time in her life, Finley was too cold.       

She stumbled as the blizzard winds whipped her hair madly around her, like a banner. The way the orange dipped and curled through the air, it felt like she was trapped under Haven’s lake’s ice, watching diluted, spilled blood sully the waters that held her back and made her movements sluggish.

There were times when she thought she could smell blood, too, freshly spilled, and she had to remind herself that she was a grown woman, lost to an avalanche, and not a little girl, curled up beneath a tree, praying that _they_ would leave her alone today.

The snow stung wherever it hit her, leaving her eyes narrowed. She might as well have walked forward with her eyes closed, for all the good it did her. The winds and snow were too strong.

Her body was numb, and her ward was failing. She’d already dispelled everything but her frost ward and a single regeneration spell that was growing weaker by the minute, hoping to conserve her mana pool until the winds died down. The weather was too much, though. It was eating away at her mana, and with each passing minute, she was weaker for it.

Her cloak nearly choked her as the wind somehow managed to pick up, harsher than before. She was tempted to just unlatch it and let it go. The way it billowed back, even when she tried to clutch it around her, was more of a hindrance against going forward than anything. It certainly wasn’t keeping her warm.

Had Corypheus summoned this blizzard? It seemed _so_ perfectly timed.

She stumbled forward again before gasping when the wind caught her cloak just right and dragged her backwards a few feet. Her fingers numbly clutched at the clasp, trying to undo it. It felt like the damned dragon had her by the cloak, trying to lift her into the air.

Such a miserable way to end her day.

This was possibly the end of more than just a day, though, wasn’t it?

For her, anyway.

At least…at least everyone else had made it, hadn’t they?

Her mind wandered back to the different people she’d come to know over the last few months, lingering on one or two faces she was better acquainted with as she tried to remember how badly others had been injured, and how likely they could fare well within this miserable storm.

Adan had borne an injured leg when she and the others had found him while retreating to the Chantry. While she’d healed it, she still worried that too much stress on the newly mended bone might make it unstable. A re-fracture would be the last thing he would need.

Most of the others had fared better, with only minor abrasions in places that wouldn’t hinder their retreat, so surely they were alright.

Though…

How many injuries had she—or any healer—not had time to check properly?

Chancellor Roderick…he’d had part of a blade _in_ his wound. If she’d had time to remove it, she could have healed him, but they hadn’t… Someone else could get it out though, couldn’t they? Solas and Adan and some many others were adequate healers—some were better than she was, unsurprisingly. The chancellor had always been one of the more annoying people at Haven, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

None of them had…

~”~

_Song birds chirped softly in the trees, and Finley inclined her head so that she could watch their little forms flitting above her. They were so high, so far out of reach. But they were easily the prettiest things she’d ever seen. The light filtering through the branches caught on their wings, making the black and yellow of their feathers shine brilliantly._

_It was the most amazing thing to see, and she hoped she could watch them forever, when something rustled near her. Abruptly, the little birds took flight, soaring off, out of sight. How they could do so escaped her, she was too small to understand, but it was beautiful._

_They were so_ free _._

_A hand brushed her arm, and she flinched as she brought her gaze down to meet her mother’s._

_No. It wasn’t her mother today._

_Today it was the inky black eyes of the demon inside her who stared back as it twisted her mother’s lips into a smile that wasn’t quite right. Perhaps it was just the eyes…_

_“Time for you to be a good little lamb,” it whispered to her, lightly taking her hand and leading her over to the fire, where her father had already laid out his tools. He didn’t need much for his time with her, just the knife and bowl to catch her blood with._

_Fade-touched blood was more potent, or so they said. She thought that they just said that because they were too selfish to spill their own._

_“Remember, not a sound.” The demon put a finger to her mother’s lips, that wrong smile still in place._

_As she held her arm out, she closed her eyes, letting images of the little birds soaring away fill her mind. She imagined she was one of them, flying away, off into that big blue unknown._

_For the first time, she didn’t even notice when the blade cut into her wrist._

~”~

The winds had stopped.

Finley wasn’t sure when, but she was still walking, still trudging forward through the snow.

Her cloak was gone.

She took a moment to stop, thinking to look down and make sure she’d healed all her injuries. Numb as she was, she couldn’t tell whether she was just cold, or if she’d lost too much blood. She should have waited in the mine shaft until the winds had stopped. Until the blizzard had stopped.

She barely stilled, looking down to see that her clothes were torn and bloodied, before she felt the cold settling into her limbs. It had never gone so deep before, and she jerked her legs back into motion, half afraid that if she stopped again, she would freeze in place.

It was _too_ cold.

As she stumbled toward some scraggly pines that poked out of the snow, she looked down, hugging her arms to herself. The blood she could see appeared to be frozen or dried, nothing fresh. She picked at some of the holes in her shirt, but moving the frigid fabric just let the cold reach places that hadn’t gone completely numb yet.

She hissed softly, rubbing her arms and forcing herself to keep moving.

Her frost ward wouldn’t last much longer.

She wondered if Sera and the others were alright. Bull, Warden Blackwall, and Solas had gone with her to aim the trebuchet, to bury Haven and make sure that their attackers didn’t get the victory they’d hoped for. Sera had tried to come with them, but Finley had insisted the elf help the little people. They would need her, and if things went sideways, there would be no one to stand up for them. Sera had looked like she _hated_ Finley for her logic, but she’d gone with the others, evacuating what was left of the town.

The rest of them had headed to the trebuchet. It had been a bloody fight, but it had been against mages, and that was something Finley could handle well. Granted, she didn’t like killing her fellow magic users—unless they were blood mages—but at least she could easily counter any stun a mage might try. And there had been no red lyrium to nullify her magic and make her useless.

She’d focused mostly on healing, truth be told. With the four of them against wave after wave, it was better to keep the others up and let them handle the bloodshed.

It felt a little callous to force their blades as she stood back, casting heals, but had been necessary, hadn’t it? She’d needed to make sure the others could get away.

She cared.

Dammit, she cared.

What had happened to pretending so that she could extricate herself safely when the time came? What had happened to keeping her senses about her? Things always ended like this. She was always left alone to face whatever might come.

So how could she have gotten caught up in this mess of feelings _again_?

At least this time it had been her choice.

While a small part of her wished that Solas had insisted they stay, that she not be left so alone, he had been a good friend. He’d listened to her plan and done his part.

There were too many Venatori, and each wave broke them down a little more. They weren’t going to last long enough to see the signal. If Finley was a group healer all her life, her task would have been easy.

But she wasn’t.

She was used to healing herself and no one else. The longer the fight went, the harder it was for her to keep track of everyone, despite her best efforts.

That was how the damned red templars had gotten her. They’d made things so chaotic that she’d forgotten to keep track of her own surroundings as she’d struggled to keep her companions alive, some small part of her assuming that they would do the same for her. Which they hadn’t.

Finley had felt trapped. She’d felt like all her experiences were useless in this situation, when it had occurred to her that she was fighting mages, not templars.

Templars knew her tricks. They knew the way apostates shifted odds to their favor, the way she and her kind could hide and what signs to look for.

Mages didn’t. They weren’t hunters.

She’d told Solas to take the others and go. She would make an illusory spell, much like her leaf birds. She’d put enough magic in it to heal a few injuries before it dispersed. It would fortify them on dispersal, encouraging them to keep going.

They would retreat, and the Venatori would follow them, thinking everyone trying to escape. They wouldn’t expect to find Finley waiting behind, because they would _see_ her fleeing with the others.

The most important part of the plan was that her illusion couldn’t take damage. The further from her it was, the weaker it would be, and so much as a jostle would undo it. Solas had promised to make sure it lasted as long as it could, and Finley had started the retreat, telling them that she knew a spell that would let her fire the trebuchet from a distance.

She’d gone a few yards with them before letting her illusion take over—a bundle of pine needles and dead branches mostly—and slipping out of sight.

She’d wound her way back to the trebuchet alone, careful to watch for any more Venatori.

Careful to watch for the signal.

And then the damned dragon had found her. She’d had wards up, detection wards in particular. And the damn thing had still sniffed her out.

Dragons were not to be trifled with.

Silly that she could have forgotten _that_.

At least, with no one around to see her use her magic, she’d had a bit more liberty to really fight back.

Finley staggered a little, nearly toppling over in the snow. She shouldn’t have fought back so hard. It hadn’t done any good, and now she could barely move.

A rueful smile sent cracks across her chapped lips as she considered how easily a templar would be able to catch her, if one stumbled across her now. Though…threats of a Circle life didn’t seem so bad, in comparison.

To have a roof over her head, walls to keep out the cold…

It sounded almost like a dream.

~”~

_Finley sat in a big armchair, pillows all around her. There was one she liked to hug more than all the others. It was the one that Sister Genevieve had given her the first day she’d been brought in. It didn’t have any of the special stitches on it like most of the others, but it fit perfectly in her little arms, and she liked the way it squished against her chest, soft and big._

_Beside her sat the best man in the world, the tall and broad Ser Caudry. He was writing his stories down for her, and she was leaning over the arm of the chair watching the way his hand moved and those scrawling letters just magically seemed to be. The way he simply made stories up as he went was some sort of magic, she was sure. Not like what her parents had done._

_His was a gentler, older, more eternal magic._

_After all, his stories would be on those pages forever. He wouldn’t need new ink constantly, nor would he need more blood._

_Finley liked that he never needed blood for the things he did._

_He was telling her the story as he wrote it. This hero had scars on his arms, just like Finley did. Old scars that hadn’t been his fault._

_Because it wasn’t a person’s fault when someone else hurt them. Ser Caudry had told her that._

_He told her all kinds of things. It was okay to be sad, to be scared. It was okay to dream. She could be anything she wanted in the world. She didn’t have to let her past dictate her future. She could be like any one of the heroes in the stories he told her._

_She liked his stories, even if they weren’t true._

_Finley had heard them talk about her when they thought she was sleeping. They said the same things about her that her parents had. She was broken. Too scared, too skittish. They couldn’t send her to the orphanage. The way she could get so paranoid and jumpy aside, her eyes would scare the other children._

_Ser Caudry never had stories about people with scary eyes._

_But he wanted her to think that the world was big and open and there to welcome her, and she liked to pretend with him._

_And who knew? If she pretended long enough, maybe it would become real?_

_It had worked with her freedom and watching the song birds, hadn’t it?_

~”~

It was too fucking cold.

She’d had to cancel her frost ward. Her magic had never been so close to being expended, and a small part of her was terrified to see what happened to mages who had no mana left. It was different from when the red lyrium had bound her magic. Rather than an emptiness, there was just exhaustion. She would have thought she’d prefer the latter, but it seemed to whisper that she would fall, that she was too weak.

The red lyrium’s binding had taken one of her senses, but this threatened to steal them all.

It made the snow dimmer, the crunch of her boots softer. Her feeling was almost completely gone in her limbs from the frigid temperatures anyway, but she was sure some of the loss could be attributed to her dwindling mana pool.

This lack of magic made everything so much _less_.

Was this how those without magic saw the world? It was so…dull.

Truly, magic was a gift. An easily abused gift, but a gift.

She flexed her fingers slowly, the chill well through her gloves. Trying to keep herself moving, she reached up to run her fingers through her hair. There was too much ice and snow and snarls in it, though. It was heavy.

If only she had a knife, she could cut it off. Maybe she’d move faster.

Her regeneration spell ticked, bringing a fresh wave of feeling and almost instant numbness through her. It was her last spell in place. Low as her mana was, if she let it go, she _would_ die.

Her breath escaped her in shallow, small puffs that burned her face as she walked into them. At least it still burned. When it stopped completely, then she’d be in trouble.

She would get through this, though. She’d found an old campfire earlier. How much earlier, she couldn’t say. It could have been five minutes before. It could have been five days. Time meant nothing with the heavy clouds hanging overhead. Had it even been a full day since the avalanche?

She would have to remember to tell Commander Rutherford he was a bastard for that idea.

Bury the town. What could go wrong?

At least they’d gotten out. She hoped that they were safe, and warm, wherever they were.

She would be alright, too. She just had to keep moving. No matter how cold, how tired she got, she’d be fine in the end. She’d get out of this.

She always did.

Something would turn up, even if it wasn’t a miracle.

~”~

_“Well, well, those are some striking eyes, aren’t they?”_

_Finley sat up slowly beside a campfire. The air was chilly, and she found herself looking around for the Chantry that had been her home for the last three years, ever since the templars had found her parents and saved her from them._

_The woods loomed up all around her and that dimly flickering fire._

_Even as her gaze snapped toward the speaker, half terrified that it would be what was left of her mother, that demon still moving her body, she saw a stranger._

_A woman with dark hair, just beginning to gray around her temples, sat across from her, a young girl not much older than Finley sitting beside her with a spiteful look on her face, arms crossed, pout well underway._

_The girl’s eyes were pure gold._

_Finley wondered if she’d had a demon for a parent, too._

_The woman tilted her head. “Well then, girl. I believe a deal is in order. I have saved you from your hunter and shared my campfire. What reparations do you think should be due?”_

_Finley stared at her blankly. Then she remembered her book. The one Ser Caudry had penned for her. After he’d been hurt and everything had happened, she’d taken that book in her arms and held it to her, hoping that if she pretended hard enough that things might be alright. Things might go back to how they’d been._

_The way things had been before her magic had come in._

_As she scanned the area, most frantic, the woman crept around the fire to inspect her more closely. “Have you no tongue or mind for words?”_

_Finley watched her a moment, scared by what she could feel curling around inside her. There was magic. Old. Old, old, old._

_“I had a book,” she whispered._

_The woman let out a low laugh, appraising Finley with a cocked head. “You will find all things fleeting in life, especially ownership.”_

_“I have to get it back.”_

_The woman watched her for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I’ll tell you what. I’m feeling rather benevolent. I’ll get your book back for you,” the woman offered, “but first, I want to know how it is that you’re so close to the Fade. It’s drawn to you in a way I haven’t seen in…ages. It’s almost like you have a piece of the Fade plucked up and pressed into you, impossible as it would be these days. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I am in the business of the impossible, after all.”_

_Finley stared up at the stranger, scared and empty._

_She wanted Ser Caudry and Sister Genevieve and the others from her home. She wanted them to tell her it would be alright. That she could be anything, anyone._

_They wouldn’t come, though._

_And even if they did…_

_“You will get my book?” Finley finally whispered. Her voice scratched against her throat, unwilling to come when called._

_When the woman nodded, she realized that the stranger had gold eyes, too. Perhaps her eyes weren’t as scary as Ser Caudry had always implied._

_“They called me Fade-touched.”_

_“My dear girl, I’m going to need a bit more than that if you want me to go back to where angry templars are hunting just for a bunch of paper.”_

_Taking in a slow breath, Finley finally shook her head. “I don’t think I know what you’re asking. I’ve always been like this.”_

_“That,” the woman was smiling, “is a better story than I’d thought I’d get. Do start from the beginning. Or as close to it as you remember. And take your time. It’s been a while since I heard a good story.”_

~”~

There was an outcrop of rock ahead, dark shapes looming in the distance. If she could get to that, she could use it to block the winds which had steadily begun to pick up again. She could wait out the cold. Wait for daylight or the clouds to go away or…something

At least the cold was letting up. The winds weren’t even bothering her anymore.

The world teetered a little, and she slowed her pace, blinking as she found it harder and harder to concentrate. The rocks had gotten blurry as her vision slipped out of focus. She narrowed her eyes, trying to stay on task. Even as her world grew clearer again, she stilled.

They were gone.

Straightening up, she struggled to swallow, turning her stiff neck slowly side to side. There was no way she’d walked past them. She couldn’t move that fast anymore.

Had they not been there? Had it been something else?

What could she have mistaken for a rock…?

The wind wrapped around her again, though she couldn’t even shiver. It was almost warm.

Her regeneration spell ticked, not that it did much in her favor.

_I have sat quiet long enough. You need help._

She thought she could hear birds singing.

And that voice.

Looking up, a clear blue sky spread out overhead, interrupted with boughs heavy with swaying leaves, letting the sunlight dance and play across her face.

Song birds twittered and flitted in the branches overhead. She reached out her hand, and one flapped down, landing on her finger, chirping away. It was different from the ones she remembered in both the memories from her childhood and her time in the Wilds.

It was considerably more persistent than the others.

She felt like it was telling her to move, but she couldn’t imagine why she’d want to.

It was so…pleasant.

Her regeneration spell ticked. It would be expended soon.

_That worthless… Listen to me, little lamb. Take my help._

Blood mages had never been here, never frightened the animals or conjured their demons. This place was safe, kind.

Finley let herself sit down, lush grass swaying around her, dew staining her clothes. More birds were flitting overhead, their voices chattering loudly.

A bit too loudly.

They hurt her head.

Another tic of the spell.

_I know you don’t like the idea, but it is impossible to find competent help without doing something oneself. I can fight back the cold for you. Just say yes._

Finley tried to tell the birds to quiet down, but she wasn’t sure the words reached her lips.

It was such a sleepy day.

Slumping forward, she felt the grass prick her face in a dozen places, but she didn’t mind. The little bird who had come down perched on her shoulder, squawking in her ear now. How did such a pretty little thing have such a terrible, deep voice?

No. Not terrible. Just, very odd for a bird.

Tic.

_Listen to me! Let me help!_

She opened her eyes—though she couldn’t remember when she’d closed them—and saw a pair of amber eyes peering down at her, a mane of fur around a hazy face.

A lion?

She’d never seen one of those in her Wilds before. Perhaps he was what kept the more frightening things at bay.

Yes, she was certain that was it.

He was a protector of some kind, though she couldn’t remember of what.

Regardless, he would keep things safe.

With one last tic, her spell dispersed, her magic too weak to keep it going any longer.

_Stubborn child. You’re lucky he’s not as worthless as I thought. You both are._

She smiled faintly as her eyes closed again. With him on guard, it would be alright to sleep, for just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	38. Stalwart Hero

Cullen sat on a small outcrop of rocks, elbows braced against his knees, hands clasped and lips pressed against his crossed thumbs as his amber gaze bore down on the tent across from him. He could see the shadows moving around inside, the fires within the tent making them dance and swirl in eerie shapes.

The wind tugged at his disheveled hair and brought gooseflesh to his skin, but he didn’t notice. His surcoat was in the tent. Whether it was still wrapped around Herald Finley or carelessly discarded on the floor mattered little.

He’d found her.

It had been a nightmare. He’d managed to assemble a small group to dare the cold, despite Cassandra’s protests that he was hardly in a position to lead the search. He was the commander, and the Inquisition needed him.

“This is _my_ fault. I should have sent someone else,” he’d admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He’d been so sure they were going to die, so sure… He’d thought sending their more capable people to bring down as many of the enemy as they could had been the best bet to draw even, if they could.

Though he’d expected her to argue with him—dreaded it, really—after he’d said his piece, she simply nodded. Cassandra had wished him a safe search and promised to keep order in the camp while he was gone—no small feat considering how few resources they’d managed to bring with them and how frightened and confused and demoralized everyone was.

They hadn’t any beasts of burden to spare, and so Cullen and his assembled search party had headed out on foot, trudging through the layer of snow that had buried Haven and their tracks, trying to use the Breach to give them direction.

It had still been hard, even with the blizzard gone. The storm had left them wandering aimlessly, and it was difficult to retrace their steps, though it was also likely that Herald Finley hadn’t been able to follow their steps, either.

Maker, she could have been heading in the opposite direction, and it would have been impossible for her to tell in the snow.

Cullen had prayed to the Maker with every breath that she was heading toward them, that her feet would be guided.

Something crashed inside the tent, and one of the healer’s soft swearing followed—Stitches, if he recognized the voice correctly.

Cullen sat up, drawn and pale, ready to charge back into the tent and—

And do what?

The whole reason he was out here now was because there was nothing he _could_ do.

Sera paced around the tent, pausing when she saw him, glaring. She blamed him for what had happened.

And she was right to.

If he’d been better prepared, if he’d been...more.

The echo of lyrium’s hum reverberated in his head, a haunting melody that told him how much more he could be. It seemed fainter, though, almost as if something had toned it down. It seemed like that had happened a little while ago. His head had been pounding and then someone had sat to talk with him, a quiet, gentle voice. Odd that he couldn’t remember the man’s face. Or had it been a boy?

Perhaps it was simply the exhaustion.

For two days, he, Warden Blackwall, Sera, and a few others had scoured the mountains. For two days, they’d attempted to find their way back to Haven, or just _to_ their Herald.

For two days, he’d had unusually vivid nightmares that gave him no respite and kept him moving for fear of returning to them.

They were different from what he was used to, and Maker help him, but he could almost swear something had ahold of him. Something dark and vile.

He couldn’t figure out what part of his dreams would make him think that, though. There were the usual memories of people being torn apart, tortured, debased while the abominations cackled gleefully from their games. There was the guilt that he should have done more, that he could have saved even one soul. There were the demons that the abominations summoned, of course.

Why did it feel like that was where something was off in his dreams? Like there could be an extra one in that mess.

He hadn’t exactly taken count of the monsters—he’d tried early on, when he was sure Knight-Commander Greagoir would be coming any second to the rescue. He’d wanted to be sure to tell them how many monsters they needed to have struck down, so that none would be missing.

But then time had dragged on, and no one had come, and the demons had been _so_ free to do as they pleased.

He’d lost track, unable to tell if the creature before him was the same one he’d seen earlier, or a new monstrosity.

Sure, he’d recognized a few—the thing living in Surana, for example—but for the most part, he’d been lost.

Now though, he was certain one had been talking to him over and over.

His brow scrunched together, the call of the lyrium abruptly getting stronger. Darkness tinged the edges of his vision, as though it might sweep up and take him. He didn’t want to fall asleep until he knew how she would be, though. That she would live.

She had to.

Maker, help him…

Though, if it came between him and the Herald, he’d rather He helped her.

She deserved it more than he did.

That they’d left her…

Cullen had been furious when Ser Yorric—one of the half dozen templars who’d gone with him—had told him they needed to head back. They were out of food, cold, and tired. They would do nothing more than lose themselves if things kept up the way they were going.

Clouds had rolled in, reading to dump more snow upon them.

Sera, Warden Blackwall, and Ser Jensen had been the only three who had stayed with him after that—after a terse conversation between the Trevelyan brothers—but even they’d been slowing down as the cold worked its way into their bones. It was doing the same for Cullen, but he kept thinking about how their Herald was the only one who had never volunteered, how she deserved better.

Sera had succumbed to the cold first, her warmer clothes given away to anyone who could use them. She’d cursed herself and everything else when Ser Jensen had reluctantly hoisted her up and taken her back on Cullen’s orders.

Warden Blackwall had stayed.

They’d stopped a few minutes to wait out the winds—and to try to get some warmth back in their bones—when something had caught Cullen’s attention.

Some type of spell.

It was just a whisper, a thread, but it had felt familiar.

With that, he’d all but abandoned Blackwall in pursuit. It never occurred to him that it might be an agent of the Venatori or a demon or _anything_ other than her.

He’d been so sure. So sure that he hadn’t even paid attention to how far he followed that whisper of magic, to how dawn peeked up over the mountains and the morning sprung to life, the snow glistening around him while he was all but blind to it.

And then he’d come up over a small ridge and seen her there. She’d been kneeling in the snow, her hair tangled and matted, her clothes a torn and battered mess.

He’d called to her, screamed her name as he stumbled forward, nearly losing his footing time and time again.

Somehow, in the time it’d taken to look down and make sure his footing was steady through a more treacherous part of the snowbank, she’d fallen forward into the snow. He’d collapsed onto his knees beside her, oblivious to the way they ached in protest of the abuse.

He’d barely heard Blackwall calling him, though he could vaguely remember calling back that he’d found her. He’d shirked his surcoat and wrapped it around her small frame, horrified by how cold she was.

As her name had tumbled from his lips frantically, she’d opened her eyes for a fleeting second.

He’d never been so happy to see that ethereal fire dancing in someone’s eyes as he had been when she met his gaze. Her chapped and frozen lips had twitched as though to form a smile, though the effort was too much energy. Her eyes rolled back and she passed out in his arms, her breathing so shallow he wasn’t sure if he’d gotten to her only to watch her die.

He’d wished he had a better cloak, a blanket, a fucking horse.

Anything that could have kept her warmer and made the trip back to their miserable little camp a little warmer or faster. Blackwall had shed a layer to wrap around Finley as well when he’d met Cullen as he struggled back up the embankment with their Herald in his arms.

She’d been so…light.

Lighter than she should have been, he was sure.

The whole way back he’d worried that she was slipping away, that he’d been too late, too slow.

They’d traded off carrying her, the added weight of even so slight a person making the trip back through that miserably unsure footing all the more brutal.

After almost a day, they’d run into Ser Yorric and Ser Jensen leading an attempt to follow their commander’s footsteps. The Iron Bull and a few of his Chargers had been among their group, and the Iron Bull had almost tossed Cullen over his shoulder when the parties had met, commenting that he looked like he was as close to death’s door as Finley.

Cullen had snapped something he couldn’t remember about not speaking so disrespectfully. Denial was all he had left at that point, and he’d been intent that if he denied that she could die, somehow she wouldn’t.

Whatever he’d said, the Iron Bull hadn’t taken it personally.

It wasn’t until Solas was kneeling beside Herald Finley that Cullen finally felt relief washing through him, brief that it was. The elf had commented that she truly was a remarkable healer to have kept herself up as she had, even as he began tending to the worst of her frostbite. He’d been more surprised that it didn’t look like she’d lose any fingers.

Even so, he had seemed concerned about how she might fare if left out in the frigid temperatures for much longer.

As soon as the elf had declared her stable enough, the Iron Bull had lifted her in his arms and taking off in that long, loping stride, covering ground far faster than Cullen or Blackwall could have.

He’d felt oddly useless as he fell toward the back of the group, unable to get his legs to keep moving quickly, his earlier sense of urgency spent.

She might still be injured and frozen, but at least she was safe.

They’d found her.

Ser Yorric had given Cullen his cloak, though Cullen hadn’t noticed until someone had adjusted it on his shoulders to keep it from falling off. A few of the soldiers had worried over _him_ like he needed it.

He would be fine. The cold had not gotten in so deep that it couldn’t be banished with a decent fire.

When he’d reached camp, he’d ignored Cassandra’s attempts to chastise him for his foolhardiness, commenting glibly on how she’d been horrified to see the others come back without him as they had. She’d scolded that he was pushing himself too hard.

He’d ignored her and instead swept through their camp until he came to where they’d brought Finley, only to have Leliana stop him, stating in a simple, clipped tone that there were already enough healers in with her, and he could do very little other than get in the way.

And so he sat out in the cold, waiting.

Cassandra sat beside him, with the Iron Bull and Blackwall across the campfire from them, all expressions grim. Sera paced around the tent, cursing under her breath, growing tense and still whenever something sounded like it was going awry inside that thin layer of canvas.

It seemed like so much needed to be done, should be done, and none of them had the power to do it.

Cullen closed his eyes, wishing that the darkness would make some of the fear and apprehension in him fade away.

Maker, please let her live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 and creepypasta-queen- for beta reading, and to everyone who reads. Feedback is welcomed :3


	39. Magic of All Kinds

Someone was reading one of her stories. Their voice wavered every so often, and sometimes they interrupted the story itself to let loose a string of curses. Colorful ones that damned everything and everyone, from the storybook characters to the Inquisition to the Maker himself.

That made Finley grin, despite the pain in sent through her.

Moving in general seemed to have that effect.

She was cold again. It had settled in a bit too much, but a good walk would help shake it from her limbs. Though she made an attempt to move, to sit up and tell Sera—she recognized her voice—that cursing the hunter in the story wouldn’t make him act any differently, the words never quite reached her lips.

When she finally _did_ open her eyes, it was quiet. Sera hadn’t been through with the story already, had she? Rather than that Maker-forsaken pattern of whorls and grains in the ceiling overhead, Finley found herself staring up at a tarp.

She blinked a few times, slowly, trying to remember why she would be in a tent.

Fire flickered near her. It was warm and…

She blinked again, lifting her head enough that she could look around. There were dozens of little fires hovering in the air around her bed, which she had been tucked into so well that she could barely get her arms free. As she managed to get one loose and reached up to hold her head—she already had a bit of a headache from watching the bright flames flicker—she heard a short, pleasant, yet unfamiliar laugh from beside her.

“Oh, good. You’re alive.”

The accent was off, but vaguely familiar. She closed her eyes and lay her head back down. “What… happened?”

“Do you not remember?” The voice came again, a bit nearer.

When she turned her head, opening one eye, she found a man she vaguely recognized sitting next to her. He had a swarthy complexion, dark hair, and the oddest moustache she’d ever seen, curling up on either side. His smile was broad as he leaned his chin on his hands, his elbows resting on some old book, nestled in his lap—not her book. It took her a moment before she realized he’d asked her a question.

She rubbed her head again. “You…”

“Dorian of house Pavus, of Minrathous, at your service, Herald of Andraste.” He spoke so quickly. When she blinked again, he laughed. “Feeling a bit sluggish, are we? I suppose you should, nearly freezing to death as you did.”

“I didn’t…” Finley frowned. She would never freeze to death. She liked the cold too much. “What happened?” She vaguely remembered something about birds and a lion.

That didn’t sound right at all.

“Well, after you went toe to toe with a darkspawn’s pet archdemon?” He paused for effect, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands over his book. Her gaze followed him slowly. “You rose from the dead, or so the rumors say.”

“I didn’t die,” she mumbled. Her tongue felt heavy.

“You didn’t do a lot of things, it seems,” he gave her a crooked grin, then held up a finger, rising out of his chair. “I should get your devoted followers. They’ll be thrilled to know that magic, once again, came through.”  He let out a dry laugh at that, walking to the tent’s entrance and poking his head out, calling, “No mobs, please, but she’s awake.”

As he stepped back in, she looked around the tent again, realizing that the reason she couldn’t smell anything burning was because every fire there was magical. The hovering should have given that away sooner.

More importantly, however, was that it was his magic.

That must have been at least a little of what he’d been talking about.

Cassandra was the first through the tent flap, half tripping to a slower pace as she hurried over to the bed. Dorian barely managed to step out of her way in time. She darted into the chair, reaching out and lightly taking Finley’s hand. She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t seem to find the right words.

As Leliana slipped up next to her, standing beside the chair with a relieved smile in place, the seeker simply nodded. “It seems the Maker is truly watching over you.”

“Finley!” Sera’s voice was sharp and very, very loud.

Even as Finley looked down to see that Josephine and Commander Rutherford stood near the tent flaps, Sera squeezed in between them, running forward and launching herself into the air before any of them could stop her. She landed on top of Finley, and the mage coughed as the wind was knocked out of her. Stars sparkled across her vision.

“Sera!” A chorus of voices snapped.

Even as Commander Rutherford started forward, gripping Sera’s arm and dragging her to her feet—with a few low, harsh words whispered in her ear that Finley couldn’t make out and Sera outright ignored—Sera pointed accusingly at her. “The frig is wrong with you? You’re supposed to run _from_ the archdemon, not play _with_ it!” When he didn’t let go of her, she kicked at his leg. “I’ve had to deal with this friggin’ prig since you decided _another_ nap was in order.”

Finley reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to laugh and finding that she still felt like Sera was there, crushing her lungs. Her hair was too neatly done to let her fingers get far. “I do…sleep a lot, don’t I?”

“Wouldn’t be so bad if you were just lazy,” Sera muttered. She finally jerked her arm free from their commander. “But no. You have to be all Herald-y. Stupid shite…” She mumbled a few other curses, crossing her arms and glaring at the nearest floating fire.

Finley’s relief at seeing so many familiar faces faded as her memories finally began to untangle themselves. Parts were still muddled, but she could remember enough. “I’m not…a Herald.” The mark tingled against her skin. “The mark isn’t Andraste’s blessing.” She lay back on the bed, already hating the tarp as much as she’d hated her ceiling. “It’s blood magic.” She brought her unmarked hand up and pressed it over her eyes. “I apparently stole it from a darkspawn magister who breached the Golden City.”

~”~

Dreams of demons and impossibly ancient monsters coming for her blood chased her back into consciousness, though the terror that ran through those winding nightmares faded away as she stared up at the tarp overhead, her mind collecting itself much more quickly than before.

She’d told them of the mark’s origins, her little audience standing quietly around her while she’d felt like she’d been sewn into place. It was a good thing that her mind had been so scattered, she supposed. Otherwise she never would have told them the truth, for fear of repercussions.

And regardless of her concerns for her own safety, they did deserve to know just what they were up against.

As it was, smiles had faded, and questions had spilled forth and…

Had she fallen asleep during their questions?

She couldn’t remember them leaving, or even an end to the conversation.

“Awake again?”

She carefully moved so that she could shove the blankets down and sat up slowly, frowning at the neat braids that fell over her shoulders. Looking at them made her feel like she was in someone else’s body.

Even as she baulked at the idea, she remembered that she wasn’t alone, and her gaze snapped up toward the other mage. His magic curled inside him quietly, like embers simmering, ready to burst back to life at a light gust of wind.

It was curious, Solas’ magic was old, Lady Vivienne’s was meticulously structured, and Dalish’s felt most akin to Finley’s, though it had strands of something old—echoes of something forgotten perhaps—wound within it. Dorian’s magic was different. Archaic and structured both.

“You were the man who warned us when the Venatori attacked.”

His smile returned as he gave her a half bow from where he sat. “I am glad to be remembered. With the way your memory is, I was half expecting to have to reintroduce myself.”

“My memory is not usually so spotty,” Finley replied, glancing around at the little fires that surrounded her. It was a pleasant whisper of magic curling inside each, though… those spells were not alone. She could feel magic skimming across her skin.

It felt…clunky.

Even as she frowned down at herself, Dorian let out a pleasant laugh. “You can feel the frost ward, can’t you?” He smirked after recapturing her attention, leaning into his hands, much as he had before. “I’m sure you’ve been told before but your eyes are quite striking. In Tevinter, there are rituals and gatherings where mages draw themselves closer to the Fade, in order to bolster their magic for the more important spells, so when I heard the rumors of the sunburst eyes, I figured I’d know what I’d see, should our paths ever cross.” He paused, head tilting to one side. “And yet… I’ve never seen the Fade quite so prominent in a mage’s eyes. Perhaps you caught a piece of the Fade in you when you took your stroll through it, hmm?”

Finley didn’t reply at first. Her head hurt.

Her head hurt, and the spell they’d cast on her was wrong. It was poorly pieced together, and it felt so much. Apparently subtlety hadn’t been an important factor in its creation.

Any templar would sense it in a breath.

Dorian’s eyebrows arched as she dispelled the ward with a flick of her fingers across her skin. “You know, it took us quite a while to come up with that. It may not be perfect, but I thought it would be sufficient for now. Lady Vivienne mused you might not approve of it, but I didn’t think you’d get rid of it so quickly.”

“You made that?” Finley asked, trying not to snap anything more. She didn’t like his attention to her eyes. It was one thing for people to just be afraid of her because of them. It was another to have someone who might have comprehensive knowledge about how and what sort of magic made one’s eyes like hers. The templars knew vague details, but if Dorian explained it to them, the wrong conclusions _would_ be drawn and…

She wasn’t sure she could outrun templars at the moment.

“If Lady Vivienne knew I wouldn’t approve, it must take a long time to cast.”

“A seven second cast time is hardly—”

“Worth wasting magic on,” Finley muttered. She tried to conjure her own magic to implement her own spell, but stopped when she heard part of a spell on Dorian’s lips. She looked pointedly at him. “If you interrupt my casting, we will have a problem.”

“Then I’d wager you might not want to cast,” Dorian grinned as she scowled. “You may be capable of a decent conversation, but you came very close to death. I would suggest letting your magic rest until you’re a bit stronger, assuming of course that you don’t want simply keel over _now_ and leave your heroes’ valiant rescue to have been a waste of time and resources.”

Finley had a feeling this man had spent very little time fleeing from templars, if he thought one could just sit about waiting for mana to regenerate. Though…

“Do you know what the templars plan to do?”

Puzzlement settled on his features as he cocked his head. “About what?”

Rolling her eyes, she wondered how daft he could be. “About me.”

“Well, it’s not exactly like they’ve taken me to the side and shown me the secret handshake, but I’d assume they intend to protect their dear Herald.”

“I’m not a Herald.”

“So you said,” Dorian leaned back in his chair abruptly, crossing his arms and then bringing one hand up to drum his fingers against his chin as he inspected her. “You know, you’re hardly what I expected.”

“I’m good at disappointing expectations,” Finley muttered, glancing around the rest of the tent. It wasn’t very large, with little room for more than the two of them and his fires. As she reached into herself, feeling her magic stirring faintly, she grudgingly conceded that he was probably right about waiting to cast anything herself.

She felt that abomination of a spell curl over her again and glared at him. He didn’t even bother to hide the twinkle in his eyes. “We’ll have to work on refining that ward, but in the meantime, it wouldn’t do to let you freeze to death.”

“I won’t freeze.”

He looked ready to argue, though quite abruptly, he shrugged, that amusement still glimmering in his eyes. “With the ward in place, it’s a moot point.” He paused, his smile slipping for a second as he leaned forward again, arms braced against his knees. “I’ve been told a little about the Inquisition in my time here, though I have to say, you being the Herald—whether it’s true or not people still call you by that title, and you seem to hold a great deal of power here—”

“You overestimate my sway.”

“You disbanded an eight-hundred-year-old organization with a word, did you not?” He arched his eyebrow. “I think perhaps you _underestimate_ your power.”

She was too tired to try to argue with him. She was surprised at how little it seemed to take to exhaust her. “If there is a point, please do get to it.”

“We may have found a way to ward against the cold, modeling the spell after your fire ward you showed the others, but the truth is we haven’t the magepower to keep it going across everyone who survived the attack on Haven for very long.” When he was sure he had Finley’s attention, his smile slowly curled his lips up again. “But I have an idea of how you could get some help, if you would be interested, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers, 0wallie0 and creepypasta-queen-, and to everyone who reads! If you have any questions or comments, I'd love to hear from you :3


	40. A Prelude of Things to Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading! And thank you to everyone who reads :3

Cullen nearly walked into Herald Finley as she darted into the tent they’d assigned for their records and missives. Their command center, so to speak, ragged as it was.

They spent a moment or two awkwardly trying to side step one another and simply staying in each other’s way as they moved in the same directions before finally stopping. With a sigh, Cullen scratched at the back of his neck and nodded toward Finley, waiting for her to step around him or say something or leave or…just about anything, really.

He expected her to don one of those snared animal looks that she was so quick to wear whenever there were templars—or former templars—about. He expected her to pick holes into her sleeves or to knot her hair around her fingers as she watched him, half ready to run should he decide that the mark wasn’t worth it and draw his blade.

Not that he would.

It was just…rather obvious what her typical fears were. Fears that lingered, despite his best attempts to show they had no grounds.

Though…she had seemed considerably less skittish around him since that night, when they’d fallen asleep together. It made his ears burn just to think of it, and he tried to force his mind to wander.

It didn’t stray far, still settling back on their Herald and her fears.

It was almost as if she’d expected them to turn on her this whole time, yet in the last few days since they’d found her and brought her to camp—now that they’d gone out of their way to save her—she didn’t seem sure what to make of them anymore.

Despite their efforts, she had not stayed in her tent to heal. Several templars had found her staggering near the edge of camp and while they had been suspicious—he hadn’t told anyone beyond the immediate group who’d already heard it that their Herald thought her gift was blood magic, but one did not set aside eight hundred years’ worth of institutionalized fear just because one mage seemed invested in the good of the whole rather than just themselves—but even as she’d bristled, Ser Jensen had come to her rescue.

Or So Cullen had been told.

Apparently she’d been willing enough to side with Ser Jensen, talking circles around the other templars, exhausted as she clearly was, but things got a little dicey when Ser Jensen offered to take her back to her tent.

That fear was rooted deep on both sides. Templars and mages.

Fortunately, even as Ser Jensen had tried to stay on their Herald’s side while arguing with the other templars that her being nervous around them hardly meant she needed to be locked up, Varric had strolled up and somehow managed to calm everyone down.

When asked, Herald Finley had only said she’d wanted to go for a walk, though when they’d pointed out that that didn’t make sense, considering she could barely stand, _Varric_ had been the one to go off on a tangent, talking about the Wilds and survival and all manner of excuses that had reportedly left Herald Finley impressed and nodding in agreement.

The templars had been annoyed, but Herald Finley had offered that she wasn’t used to being able to lie about so and that, considering their current predicament, she felt woefully selfish holed up in her tent. As a healer, she’d wanted to take stock of their supplies.

So why had she looked like she was trying to actually leave the camp, one of the templars had wanted to know.

She’d said she thought she saw something in the tree line, but didn’t want to cause an alarm if it was nothing.

The templars had gone to check while Ser Jensen and Varric escorted her back to her tent.

She’d stayed there for three days. While Cullen had only been able to swing by once, he’d heard from others that she was rather grumpy over the whole thing. Grumpy and skittish and healing slower than he would have liked.

At least she was alive, and had enough energy to make the templars’ lives difficult.

The mark crackled softly, drawing Cullen out of his thoughts.

She’d told them that the mark was blood magic, that it was something evil and while she’d laid there, completely defenseless, Cullen had found himself drawing closer, wanting to reach out and take her hand, to tell her he didn’t believe that their salvation could be blood magic. Even if it had been a blood ritual that had made it, Finley hadn’t cast it. She hadn’t been involved.

She didn’t need to fear that they would turn on her.

Still, that fear, muted as it might be considering recent events, was still in her, and thus he had expected her to show it, if only in passing.

However, when she simply stood up a bit straighter and side stepped him, gaze sweeping the rest of the tent to take stock, her demeanor a bit calmer than he’d ever seen it…

That gave him pause.

“Herald.”

“Commander,” she said, matching his formality. Her hands were clasped in front of her, much the way she had been when she’d tried to sneak out of Haven months ago, and the only real movement to her was a slow rock from heel to toe and back. When neither of them made a move for the tent’s exit, she motioned toward it. “I did not mean to interrupt your…duties.”

Cullen tried not to narrow his eyes.

This was odd.

The last time she’d acted like this, she _had_ been trying to sneak off on her own. And she was clearly doing better than his reports had indicated. There were a few bruises that peeked through the holes in her clothes, but beyond that, she didn’t look at all like someone who’d fought an archdemon and darkspawn magister, been caught in an avalanche, and nearly frozen to death.

“Were you looking for something?”

“Sister Leliana,” Finley replied, a bit too on point. She idly let her gaze wander the tent again and then shrugged. “I suppose I shall have to look elsewhere.”

“I suppose you shall,” Cullen echoed, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. “Or perhaps it’s something I could help you with?”

At that, she stiffened for just a breath. Before he could suck in the air to ask what was going on, she’d relaxed again. “No. It’s a matter of…”

“Secrecy?”

“Well, Sister Leliana does deal with secrets, I suppose,” Finley straightened up further, somehow, tugging on a sleeve and beginning to fall back into her usual fidgeting. He was surprised at how comforting those little actions were. “Also information and contacts and…I should imagine you to be familiar with her role in the Inquisition at this point, commander.”

“I suppose I am,” he replied, finally stepping toward the tent’s exit and holding the flap open for Finley. As his gaze happened outside, he thought he saw that Tevinter, Dorian, standing not far off, with a dwarf he didn’t recognize.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Sister Leliana is, would you?”

Finley’s voice drew him his attention away from their odd audience, and he glanced down at her. When he looked back across the way, both mage and dwarf had disappeared. His brow furrowed, and he took a step outside of the tent.

“Commander?”

He reached up to rub one of his temples. Perhaps it was the cold and lack of sleep and that damned whisper of lyrium always at the edges of his vision, but…

He had seen them, hadn’t he?

Maker, help him if he was hallucinating.

“I, uh,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “I believe she was in the southern part of camp, reviewing some reports coming in about possible places we could head.”

“Seems like out of the mountains would be a good bet,” Finley offered, pausing when Cullen fell into step beside her. She only faltered for a second, but it was enough for him to notice.

What was going on?

“Well, yes, but we can’t just show up on some Bann’s land without permission, nor can we encroach on some Orlesian noble’s property. And we’ll need somewhere substantial to house our forces.”

“Forces dwindling by the day,” Finley whispered, gaze down.

He felt his chest clench at her words. They were true enough. Despite their mages’ efforts, they could not keep everyone warded against the cold all of the time. While Herald Finley’s adjustments to the spell that the other mages had manages to piece together to make it more efficient, there simply weren’t enough of them. And even without the cold, there were injuries that were becoming infected and food supplies were emptying far too quickly and…

“It is a mire,” Cullen murmured.

“I think I know a way to fix things.”

That made his gaze snap up, to her. She was very much preoccupied with where she was placing her feet. However, when he watched her for a moment, her gaze darted toward him for just an instant. “How?”

“I need to talk to Sister Leliana.”

“Not me, though.”

“She will be more acquainted with how to make my ideas a reality.”

Cullen arched his brow. “You realize I’m a strategist, yes?”

“For soldiers and fighting,” Finley objected, looking at him directly, annoyance dancing along with that magic in her eyes. “Not everything falls under your purview. Otherwise we wouldn’t need Sister Leliana and Josie.”

He eyed her again. “And you can’t tell me what this is about?”

He had the oddest tingling sensation at the back of his neck, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he thought he saw Dorian duck behind a tent. He stopped, turning fully to try to see what was going on. Even as he started to backtrack, he remembered he’d been trying to figure out what Herald Finley was on about. When he turned back to her, he frowned.

She, too, was gone.

Maker.

He’d taken his eyes off her for a second.

Were the mages playing with him for a reason, or were they just bored?

Was Dorian involved with whatever Herald Finley was up to? It felt like it, though he couldn’t quite figure out the pieces of this puzzle.

Seeing as he’d been left, he opted to wander back to look for Dorian rather than hassle their Herald. After all, he knew—at least—that she was looking for Leliana, and even when she had been trying to trick him in the past, it had never been for anything malicious.

There were no tracks where he’d seen Dorian.

The snow was pristine and clear and fresh and…

And that didn’t make any sense. This was a camp that was constantly on the move, with people and patrols trekking through every inch of snow, turning it up, muddying it. That it would be this clear indicated that someone was trying to hide their tracks.

Magically.

Cullen took in a slow breath. He’d left the Order behind to make something better of himself, to be a part of something that wasn’t corrupted to the core. He’d left behind the mantle of templar.

And yet, as he looked down at that swath of pristine snow leading in so obvious a trail, he couldn’t help the urge to follow it, to see what that Tevinter mage was up to. So often mages didn’t realize that in making sure there were no clear tracks to follow, they made a path so unnaturally perfect that it was obvious magic had been involved. Looking for signs that tracks had been covered was just as much a part of hunting mages as searching for signs they’d been there, if not more so.

Cullen took in another breath of frigid air and then started along the snow, his own footprints sloshing away at the perfection.

Wasn’t Dorian a fire mage? How had he done this?

While, yes, mages could learn spells from different sects, they generally tended to stick with one or two, often types of magic that complimented one another. That Dorian had already shown proficiency in fire and healing—it was an odd sort of healing, but healing none the less—made it somewhat unlikely that he’d also be dabbling in frost.

Was he wandering around with First Enchanter Vivienne? Cullen hadn’t seen her, and she was most definitely not the type to slink around. If she was going to be somewhere, she made damned sure people knew it.

Not that that was a bad thing, just…this secrecy wasn’t something she’d stoop to.

So then…who…?

Cullen stopped in his tracks.

When Dorian had been questioned, after things had quieted down, he’d explained how he was looking for his countrymen and he’d found them, and then dutifully come to warn the Inquisition. However, there had been holes in his story, holes that Leliana had been content to let him keep, implying she knew at least a little of it.

Cullen understood that she would keep things from him if she didn’t deem them important enough to burden him with—if it was political rather than military—but this had felt distinctly different.

This had felt like the way Leliana was so quick to take up arms to defend the mage cause.

If she knew that Cullen wouldn’t be on board with going to the mages now, when the Inquisition was at its weakest…

Maker help them.

That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Herald Finley and Dorian were seeking out Leliana to recruit the mages _now_ , of all times.

Cullen resumed his hunt, his pace quicker.

While he still didn’t know that he would want to ally with the mages, seeing as they’d been tearing up the countryside and inciting panic and fear in the general populace in the last two years, it left him more than a little irate that they would try to go about recruiting them behind his back.

He was the commander, and if the mages joined, they would be part of the forces in the Inquisition. He would need to work with them, and that garnered him just as much reason to be involved with their recruitment as anyone, if not more.

Maker preserve him.

Had Herald Finley not listened when they’d explained the whole mage/templar war issue? They already had the templars here. Just because the Order had been disbanded didn’t mean that fighting wouldn’t break out if the mages and templars were brought together.

They needed unity and stability, especially now, lost as they were in the mountains, chances of support dwindling as the outcome became more and more bleak.

And even if they could bring the mages in, they hadn’t the supplies to keep more people in this dismal camp.

What were they thinking?

Lately, it seemed like all he and the other advisors did was argue when they were together. The Inquisition was falling apart.

That they would go behind his back, though…

When he finally swung around a tent to see that, sure enough, Finley, Dorian, the dwarf from before, Solas, and another mage he didn’t recognize were all grouped up and talking to Leliana, he had to fight back the grimace that wanted to take hold of his features.

It wouldn’t do to walk up proving them right in their wariness, would it?

He’d left the Order behind, and if mages were coming to the Inquisition now, they would have to know the condition of their organization. They would have come knowing that they would be required to assist rather than seek refuge.

If that was the case, he would be able to work with them.

Surely, though, they would be wary of joining an organization with so many templars in it.

Templars who no longer had an order…

Cullen wasn’t sure how he felt about this as he came to a stop in front of the small gathering, gaze sweeping over them and stopping on Herald Finley. Her gaze narrowed slightly, though she didn’t seem surprised to see him there.

“Commander, good,” Leliana said before he could think of anything to say. Her voice was unusually pleasant and that made him frown, despite his earlier vow not to. “We were going to need to speak with you about a rather fortunate turn of events.”

“The mages are offering their assistance?” Cullen asked, his tone a bit clipped.

“We are,” the unfamiliar mage offered, stepping forward. He was spindly and tall, his shoulders a bit hunched from a lifetime of sitting at desks, hunched over research. “I am Reinald Grovinger, here on behalf of Grand Enchanter Fiona.” He made a short bow.

Cullen returned the action with a nod of his head. He wasn’t sure what he said in response, but it was something distant and pleasant, something that wouldn’t ruffle feathers.

For a second, he was half terrified that he might know the mage from either Kinloch Hold or Kirkwall, but the name was unfamiliar, and his face was that of a stranger’s.

Cullen tried to push thoughts of both Circles from his head as he listened to Leliana and the mage talk back and forth about coming together. Finally, when there was a lull in the conversation, he stepped in. “If you are to join us, you should know that we have fallen on poor luck for the time being. We—”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Reinald laughed.

“We have no place to call home.”

“Solas had a suggestion in regards to that, actually,” Herald Finley interjected, rocking from heel to toe and back again. She was hardly fidgeting, more alert than usual. Was he making her nervous? “He knows of a place we can head to. It’ll take a few weeks, though.”

“In the meantime,” Reinald picked up as her voice died off, “well will be happy to send a…smaller number of our people over to help maintain your…frost ward, was it?” He looked back at Herald Finley. When she nodded, his smile returned. “We look forward to working with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking I may switch to updating once a week instead of twice for a little while. Does anyone have a preference for what day? Also, if you have any questions or comments, feel free to let me know!


	41. By Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading, and to everyone who follows along <3

“You know, I have to say I’m a bit impressed with Curly,” Varric offered as they trudged up a snowy embankment. “I would’ve thought he’d pull all those curls of his out before he’d let mages have their run of the Inquisition.”

Sera scoffed. “Piss. Not really running shite, yeah?” She kicked at the snow a little, easily trotting across it. “Just casting a spell here and there. Nothing fancy. Though I don’t like it when they try to cast on me. Tingles wrong.”

“There’s a right kind of tingly?” Varric laughed.

“Finley’s kind’s not so… It’s not so loud. It’s there, but it’s quiet like. Doesn’t go raising the hairs on your neck.” With a sideways glance, Sera shrugged a little. “Still weird, but not bad weird.”

Despite not liking Sera’s blatant aversion to magic, Finley found her comments more curious than offensive. “You can feel a difference in magic based on the caster?”

Sera shrugged. “Can’t everyone?”

In Finley’s experience, those without magic tended to have duller senses, but she supposed if a person was used to a certain mage’s magic after a long enough frame of time, they might be able to tell the difference between it and other casters’ spells.

And it wasn’t as though she had ever really asked non-mages much about it. Prior to the Inquisition, she’d rarely spent time with anyone, and those few she did interact with were typically other apostates. Or templars, though those interactions were generally not so pleasant.

Finley turned her gaze toward Varric, head tilting. “Can you?”

“Not really, but you have to remember, I’m a dwarf,” Varric pointed out as he trudged through the frost. “We’re so far removed from the Fade, we’re lucky we can tell when it’s setting us on fire.”

Sera rolled her eyes and made a quick quip about his sarcasm.

Finley reached out and patted Sera’s shoulder, smiling. “You’re probably right.” The elf shrugged, though she did perk up, a bit more of a swagger in her walk. As she let her hand drop, Finley tugged on the cloak she’d been given. That they’d even had any extra ones was depressing. No one had had time to grab extra supplies, and as a result, she was once again depending on the dead to offer contributions.

Chancellor Roderick hadn’t made it.

So many hadn’t.

All she’d done, and again, too many were dead.

At least…at least no one seemed to blame her for the atrocities this time.

Funny how that didn’t seem to make it better…

She tried not to think about it. “I don’t think we have to worry about Commander Rutherford. He’s very professional.”

“You…might wanna be careful there, Stardust,” Varric said, words a staccato as though he weren’t sure he wanted to warn her or not. Even as she gave him a questioning look and he simply shook his head, they came to the top of the slope. A vast, snowy expanse stretched out before them, mountains climbing toward the sky on all sides. His shoulders fell. “Did Chuckles say how far this keep was from Haven?”

“Far enough. Like all that elfie stuff, it’s just gotta be out of the way. At least it’s gotta do better than a raggy little village. Won’t shite ourselves the first time something glares at us,” Sera muttered. As Varric and Finley sighed, she added, “Commander Knows Everything should have seen _that_ one coming.”

“Don’t blame him,” Finley objected, lightly hitting Sera on her arm. “I don’t think _anyone_ could have seen an archdemon coming. Or a darkspawn magister.”

“You’ve got it all wrong.” She tapped her head for emphasis. “He’s a general for a _reason_. Their _job_ is to see all that, yeah? Soldiers and traps, that stuff.” Sera snapped. Then, she shrugged, seeming to lose interest in their current topic of conversation. “So is this keep gonna be really elfie?”

“He didn’t say,” Finley murmured, letting her gaze sweep over the snow before them. Everyone would be so disappointed when they followed over the latest ridge. They’d been traveling for almost a week, and it felt like they were no closer to being safe than when they’d first left.

The mages had opted to wait to join them fully until they found their new stronghold. While some whispered that they were waiting to see if the Inquisition wouldn’t just wander its way off a cliff, Finley thought it made sense. They barely had enough resources to sustain the numbers they had, and more mages meant more mouths to feed and more people to shelter.

The mages who had come were dutifully assisting with the upkeep of the wards, though even with them, it still felt like they were losing ground every day. The mages had been talking about asking for more of their brethren to join them, but they’d decided against it.

Finley had been a bit disappointed by their decision—after all, more mages in general meant less templars watching her at any given moment, as they would have to split their attention.

Selfishness aside, more like than not, the templars would adjust to mages being around better if they felt marginally safe. And they would feel safer if they had a home.  

Waiting would be for the best.

And it wouldn’t be much longer, surely.

Solas had promised the keep was to the north, and she trusted him. After all, he had yet to mislead her. It had been hard to tear her away from the infirmary after she was well enough to move about—she’d worried the templars might think her suspicious if she wasn’t dutifully healing—but Solas had made her a deal. He and Cole would stay behind to help, if she would lead the way to Skyhold.

Even so…

She’d thought it would make more sense if Solas did the leading, as he knew where to go, but he’d simply promised to assist her if they seemed to be wandering in the wrong direction. Every morning, he made sure to point out some dip in the mountains ahead for her to aim towards, and then he was gone with their spirit to tend to the wounded.

While Finley still didn’t quite trust Cole, she had to admit that he was useful.

And he didn’t _feel_ demonic.

And Solas trusted him so completely.

And Solas wasn’t a blood mage, so that actually meant something.

While she had talked to Solas about the Fade and spirits before, sporadically, it had occurred to her that perhaps he could help her with… _it_.

She would have to get the courage to breach that subject first, of course, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell anyone that she had a demonic stalker, even if it typically chose not to try to possess her.

After all, who would believe _that_?

And if she explained _why_ it followed her…

She tried to push that train of thought from her mind as she focused on the way forward.

Bull and his Chargers, along with Warden Blackwall, were taking up the rear of the procession, making sure that there were people there to defend against any ambushes, should Corypheus find them before they could get to where they were going. It was a little disappointing, as they all had such great stories—Bull had figured out that if he talked about the animals up north, Finley tended to drop her guard a bit more than usual.

Finley had noticed too, but she tried not to feel too slighted. After all, she figured she got about as much from their conversations as Bull did.

Everyone else was working together, keeping one another awake and attentive, even as the cold nipped at them through the wards and bade them rest within its icy embrace.

There’d even been singing, once.

It was amazing how such a simple song had been able to calm so many frayed nerves.

Finley had always used her storybook to banish her own fears—it was Cole who had managed to save it from the avalanche, and had given it to Varric after trying to read one of the stories and getting confused. Varric and Sera had found him hugging the book, telling it ‘soothing nonsense’ as Varric had said. Cole had left them with the book when Sera had screamed for Cullen, even though she couldn’t remember why she’d needed him by the time he’d made it to the tent—Varric was one of the few who could remember Cole, it seemed. Cullen had no doubt assumed Sera was just playing games, trying to punish him for ‘leaving Finley behind to fend for herself’ when he was ‘supposed to be protecting her’.

In truth, Sera was mad at everyone who had been supposed to stay back with Finley. From what she’d heard, Sera had even tried to punch Solas, though he’d managed to dodge out of her reach every time. Warden Blackwall had finally put a stop to the fight, assuring Sera that they would find their Herald. He and Cullen had already been gathering volunteers to go back and look for Finley.

Finley felt a bit bad about not being able to remember their daring rescue.

She had too many holes in her memory, as it was.

However, missing memories aside, she was doing fairly well, now that she was safely back with the Inquisition.

Cole had checked on her a few times since, as though unsure if she’d actually want to be back with them or not, but kept his distance overall, save for one time when he’d helped her sneak far enough out of camp so that she could recast her wards and defensive spells, like the one she that let her know when templars were looking her way. She’d gotten caught on her first attempt to put some distance between herself and the templars before her casting, and honestly she probably shouldn’t have been wandering around just yet, but…

She was definitely leaning toward Cole being something good. He’d helped her without hurting anyone, and prior to him, she hadn’t been sure demons—or spirits—could even do that.

Help without hurting.

That he had retrieved her book, or simply thought to bring it with them as they fled, had meant more than the rescue itself. Whenever she saw him, she couldn’t help a little smile, and he would beam back before disappearing.

She wondered if he’d given Mother Giselle the idea for her song.

Probably not. She likely hadn’t needed the guidance.

The power of that song had been…curious to see, even if it had meant nothing to Finley herself. It had brought sorely needed hope.

People were humming it more and more as the walk drew on.

“So then, can I expect the same level of misery here, up front, as the rest of this little caravan? Or does the lovely Herald _actually_ know where we’re going?”

The three of them turned to see Dorian pressing toward them, wading through the almost knee deep snow with surprising speed. Behind him, Finley could see a slow trail of people, ending in little black dots in the distance.

There were so many depending on finding that keep.

Dorian had caught up to them and stood before them where they rested at the top of the embankment. His lips twitched into a frown as he viewed the expanse of white stretching on and on ahead. He looked back at Sera, Varric, and Finley, taking in their tired expressions with a critical eye. “My dear, you _do_ know where we’re going, I hope?”

Finley pointed ahead. “It’s that way.”

“And that is not nearly as assuring as I think you meant it to be.” He laughed and then shook his head. “I feel as though that commander of yours has gotten his hooks in you, so let me point out that not all leaders need to be so somber.”

Picking at her sleeve, Finley eyed him, trying not to let her suspicions overtake her expression. From the amusement in his eyes, she was failing. “I wouldn’t really say I’m a _leader_ …”

The look that Dorian gave her…

She wasn’t sure what it meant. Disbelief, perhaps?

Slinging an arm over her shoulders, he began down the slope with her. “Dear Herald, you single-handedly fought an archdemon—”

“And lost.”

“—survived despite the impossible odds, and are now quite literally leading the Inquisition through the mountains—”

“Solas told me where to go.”

“—and you think you’re not the one in charge here?” He paused, appraising her with his brow arched and then shook his head. “Didn’t you disband the entire templar order?”

“She didn’t think they’d do it,” Sera offered. She’d taken her place on Finley’s other side, keeping up with the mage duo easily.

“That’s not something we want to spread around, Buttercup,” Varric said, taking up the rear of the party as he struggled a little more through the snow than the others, thanks in part to his shorter stature.

However, the damage had been done. Dorian held up a hand, index finger extended toward the sky before he dropped it to point toward Finley. “You told an ancient order to disband without thinking they’d actually do it?”

Finley tried to stand up a bit straighter. “I was angry with their incompetence.”

“I wonder what you’d do in the magisterium…” Dorian trailed off, finally letting her go when one of his boots skidded on some hidden ice and he nearly brought both of them down. When he seemed content that his footing was safe, he sighed, seemingly bothered by the silence that fell once he stopped talking. “I assume that my earlier question about misery up here has been answered. Good to see you’re not hoarding the cheer for yourselves, I suppose.”

“Well, _you_ could always cheer us up,” Varric offered, motioning to him.

“Am I to be the entertainment then?” Dorian drummed his fingers against his hips, considering it. “I do love a good show…though I tend to prefer to watch, if I’m to be perfectly honest.” Even as he spoke, the four of them continued the slow trudge downhill into the valley. Despite debating silently about waiting a little longer, Cassandra and the others would be able to see them once they reached the top of the crest, so there was no real reason to linger. “What about you, Herald? Have you anything that could pass the time? A fun spell perhaps? Pretty lights to distract us from this miserable trek?”

“You were there when I explained I’m not a herald of anything,” Finley murmured. Dorian was a decent sort, but he didn’t seem to understand Finley’s power, or lack thereof. It made her curious as to how many others might be confused about such matters as well.

The envoy from the mages had certainly acted like she was someone most important, though…that was likely because of Dorian. She’d have to try to reason with him later. The mark was what made her important. The rest of it was just…

“Oh, the truth hardly matters when so many believe.” Dorian waved a hand dismissively, eyes downward as his feet left little trenches through the snow. “But if you do so dislike the title, perhaps you could tell me one you prefer? Despite my valiant and successful efforts to restore you to health, and our numerous run-ins in camp, we’ve yet to be properly introduced, you and I.” He paused before adding, “Well, _I_ introduced myself. You were swarmed by adoring underlings before you could reply.”

“Her name’s frigging Finley,” Sera muttered. “You’ve heard it.”

“I’ve also heard Stardust and Ladybits and…well, I was under the impression that, quaint as the south is, you still believed in proper introductions.”

“I’m afraid you’ve already heard all there is to mine.” Finley paused to face him and dipped into a short curtsey. “But I’m Finley, supposed Herald of Andraste.”

“No last name? No house or clan or…whatever it is out in those Wilds?” Dorian asked, head cocked as he made a vague gesture toward the south.

“None.”

“Well, that won’t do at all.” He made a few superfluous hand motions as he strode forward through the snow. He nearly tripped once when his boot got caught on a well-buried rock. As he righted himself with as much dignity as he could muster, he motioned to her. “You should make something up. Something that says you’re important, but without screaming that you think you are. It will be a fine line to balance, but with assistance I think you can manage.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Why ever not?”

“The more names I make up, the more I have to keep track of.”

At that, he laughed. “Maker’s balls, but you’d best be careful how you phrase comments like that. People will think you made up your first name, too.”

Finley nearly tripped face first into the snow. Standing up a bit straighter, she tried to shrug as casually as she could. “That would be ridiculous.”

It wasn’t until she realized that she couldn’t hear the others trudging along through the snow with her that she turned back. All three of them were staring at her. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to decide who to watch, feeling that familiar curl of panic coiling in her gut, ready to grip her lungs at a moment’s notice. She tried not to look scared. “What?”

“Stardust,” Varric began, struggling forward a few paces toward her. “Your…your name isn’t really Finley, is it?”  As she stood where she was, unmoving, gaze finally honed upon the dwarf, his lips spread into a wide grin. Before she could register what was happening, he let out a cackle. “The seeker’s gonna be so pissed when she finds out you kept your real name from her.”

“Don’t see how she’s got a right to,” Sera began, shrugging when Finley felt that swell of fear in her building further. “The seeker, not you. I mean, you’ve been all sorts of right for this stupid adventure, so it doesn’t really matter what label they slap on you, right?”

“It means there’s something hidden, Buttercup,” Varric argued, his smile slipping. “Something for enemies to find.”

Tugging on her sleeve, Finley tried to think of something she could say to sidetrack them. When nothing came to mind, she simply shrugged. “Well they can look all they want. They won’t _find_ anything. And anyway, plenty of people change their names.”

Dorian crossed his arms, appraising her with new interest. “Not on a whim.” He shifted his weight, glee in his eyes. “‘What did the dear Herald have to hide by changing her name, I wonder?’ That’s what they’ll be saying. It will damage your credibility, my dear.”

Finley stilled, that miserable tightness starting to squeeze her lungs. She’d messed up.

Oh, how she’d messed up.

How was it every time she thought she was getting used to being around people nonsense that she made some huge blunder that made everything more complicated.

It was Sera who came to her rescue. Hopping easily over the snow, she came to stand next to Finley and looped arms with her. “What’s it matter what her name was? She’s Finley now. We got arse nobles sitting on their tits, acting like shoes and crumpets are the most important shite right now when…” she trailed off, looking frustrated. “I just mean Finley’s done more for this shite world than most. If we’re all who know her secret, don’t see why it can’t stay that way.”

“It might make things complicated, if it comes to light that you hid things about yourself, though,” Varric stressed, finally making it the last few paces to stand in front of Finley.

She huffed, trying to focus on Sera’s support and not the terror that the other’s dour expressions were feeding. “Of course I’ve hidden things about myself. I’m an apostate. We hide in general.”

“Just don’t tell anyone else,” Sera suggested. “I mean, tits. Not like a damn word makes you more or less of what you are, right?”

Varric seemed like he wanted to point something out, and Finley tried not to shiver as she abruptly realized why she shouldn’t have gotten caught up in pleasantries. More and more, she was slipping up.

When they’d first asked for her name when she’d been brought to Haven, she’d just said the first ‘normal’ name that had popped into her head. She hadn’t expected to be out of her Wilds long enough for it to matter. She’d originally intended to flee the first chance she got.

And then she’d been taken to the Breach and learned she was the only one who could close the rifts. From there, everything had just slipped further and further from her control. Now, she was trapped—though it didn’t always feel that way, especially when she was laughing and joking with Sera and the others…

Or when she was with her commander. Perhaps it was silly, but the friendlier he became, the less she knew how to act around him. It was a different sort of trap, one that didn’t end with stinging cuts, but a different sort of ache, one she wasn’t entirely familiar with.

However, frightening as her situation continued to be, thinking back on her adventures with Sera and time with Commander Rutherford was enough to shake her mood.

With a sigh, Varric started forward again. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Me neither,” Sera nodded quickly, her hair fluttering around her wildly. She turned, dragging Finley around with her and matched Varric’s pace. Finley followed, with considerably less enthusiasm.

“Well, I can certainly keep a secret,” Dorian replied, setting a quick pace to keep up, just behind Varric. “Herald Finley, it is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance.”

As Varric drew even with her, he lightly clasped her hand in his and beckoned her to lean down. When she did, he whispered, “You _should_ tell Leliana, though. If anyone needs to know, it’s our spymaster.”

Despite the distinct feeling that telling more people would be counterproductive to her goal of keeping anyone else from being able to question her, as Dorian had implied they would, she nodded.

Understanding that they’d put a damper on her spirits, Dorian and Varric both threw themselves into lightening the mood, with Varric recounting the great Garrett Hawke’s adventures and Dorian enthralling them with his horrendous misadventures with a friend named Felix. Sera offered the occasional Red Jenny tale, as well.

When the sun began to slip behind the western mountain peaks, they found that they’d traveled almost the full length of the valley without even noticing.


	42. Dealing

Cullen massaged his temples slowly as he sat in their command tent. Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra were with him.

As usual, Finley had led the way toward the keep that Solas swore would be visible in the next day or so. Dorian had joined her with her two favorite rogues, and it had been amusing to watch their occasional outbursts happen in the distance. There had been three snowball fights, and twice all four of them had disappeared after falling into the snow. Once Dorian had even conjured a ridiculous amount of fire.

They had not been overly appreciative of the ice slick that had formed in its wake. Somehow, it had fallen to Cullen to corner the mage and demand he not be so reckless, for the sake of those following. Dorian had seemed quite indignant, but he’d promised to take more care with his spells in the future.

However, the day had been almost lighthearted.

That was, until Finley had come to them and quietly explained that her name was not actually her name.

Or rather she’d accidentally told them all.

Cassandra and Cullen had been heading into the tent to discuss some of the successes regarding a few hunts that had brought in a decent pull that would keep them going at least a little longer with Josephine and Leliana. As Cullen had opened the tent flap and held it up or Cassandra to pass in ahead of him, he’d heard Finley’s voice and had been pleasantly surprised, drawn in by the soft cadence she used.

Even as he’d considered that it would be nice to be able to talk to her for a little while after they’d gone over everything—Maker willing they’d have time, of course—what she was saying had hit him.

Finley wasn’t Finley.

She’d spoken as they came in, too late to change the subject or catch herself before she could tell all four of them. The look she’d given Cassandra and him…it had been one he was well acquainted with at this point, though it still stung when she sent it his way.

Had he not proved that she needn’t fear him so?

What more did he need to do to show her that he wouldn’t hurt her?

He enjoyed her company, and that she still seemed so frightened by his… It felt like it hurt more than it should. After all, someone had told the newcomer mages that he was the former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, and they also cast fearful glances his way when they weren’t making a point of disappearing whenever he drew too close. Their fears were not without reason, but somehow it was different with Herald Finley.

He couldn’t explain it.

“Who were you before Finley?” Cullen had asked, brow furrowed, that familiar exasperation making all his aches more pronounced. His head had hurt.

“I’ve never really had a proper name. I just went with whatever people felt like calling me at the time,” she’d replied.

That had been all they’d been able to get out of her on the matter, and she’d eventually excused herself to go speak with Solas, who had come by to talk about their travel plans for the morrow. It was oddly convenient that he’d come during the night, instead of the morning as he usually did.

Not that Cullen could prove they’d somehow set that up as a way for her to get out of being questioned, of course.

Cassandra had thought she’d seen something—someone—with them as they’d walked off, but she couldn’t quite remember. Cullen wasn’t particularly thrilled with that. More and more, he was getting reports of a young man traveling with them, which in itself wouldn’t have been much cause for concern—there were a lot of young men in the Inquisition. However, this was a young man who people could not quite remember by the time they’d finished their reports or mentions of him.

If they remembered him at all.

Cullen was fairly certain the young man wasn’t one of the mages who’d come to assist them, for the reports of his presence had started well before the mages had shown up.

There was clearly magic involved, however, and seeing as it affected the mind, it was the kind most wanted to avoid. Cassandra had mentioned it to the Finley once, and the way she’d danced around the topic had all but confirmed that she knew something about it. They would need to try to talk with their Herald about not letting whoever he was stay near them, when they had more time, when they weren’t in such a dire situation.

When they could remember to bring it up to her.

As it was, a disappearing boy slipped the mind with surprising ease.

And there were more immediate problems.

Supplies were running low. The cold was getting to everyone, even with the frost ward. The cold ate through what the mages cast, and the mages were quickly expending their magic to try to keep it going. People were grateful for the magic, but Cullen had a feeling that gratitude might turn to contempt if the mages spread themselves too thin and found themselves unable to keep the casting up.

People would say they were withholding it.

And with things as they were, they couldn’t afford a riot.

While they were moving ahead, albeit slowly, the defeat at Haven still hung over everyone’s heads, made worse with each passing day that they trudged through the snow and cold, seemingly lost.

“When I could find _so_ little on her, I had assumed she had given a fake name,” Leliana mused, finally breaking the silence that had settled over the four, and pulling the others from their thoughts. “It has made learning of her past somewhat of a pain. Thus far, I cannot find any stories of a mage matching her description within the Wilds. If I could locate where she’s originally from, I can make sure there’s nothing damning in her history.”

“Or perhaps we should focus on making contact with whoever she stayed with _in_ the Wilds? I hear the Avvar are more welcoming of magic. Perhaps she has a clan she lived with?” Josephine asked. When they all looked at her, she shrugged, “Mages come into their magic young. She could not have lived in the Wilds on her own.”

“True,” Leliana nodded, considering it. “To have been adopted by an Avvar clan does make the most sense.” She sat back in her chair, crossing her legs and drumming her fingers against her knee. “I knew she was holding back about someone…some people. I had assumed other mages, but… Perhaps it was her clan? With the way relations can vary so drastically, this clan might not be on friendly terms with Ferelden or Orlais.”

“Regardless of names, the mark on her hand is what makes her the Herald,” Cassandra finally spoke up. She sounded exhausted. “Even if it was created by that creature, I still believe it was put there, on her, for a reason. Of all the people at the Conclave, and she was the one to interrupt this Corypheus’ plot? Perhaps the Maker guided her steps.”

The rest of them fell to silence. Cullen would like to believe that, though with everything that had happened, it was frightening. To think that a thousand-year-old magister could be the one who had destroyed the Conclave, to have killed the Divine.

How could they expect to fight against that?

And now their Herald wasn’t even really…

Rising to his feet, he excused himself as quietly as he could. He was the commander. He’d lead the soldiers wherever the others decided, so long as it wasn’t straight into the void. He wandered the camp until he found himself in front of Herald Finley’s tent. The fact that they’d been able to grab as little as they had had been a miracle, but he’d made certain that she could have her own space.

Even if she hadn’t bothered to give them a proper name…

Maker, but it made his mind reel. One moment it seemed like they were starting to understand one another, to be…friends—Maker help him. He had so few friends as it was. To be able to count her as one would be nice.

Yet how could they be, when he knew next to nothing about her at all?

Though, did it honestly matter so much? Names and pasts… It seemed her current actions spoke more to her character than not having a formal name. After all, she’d saved them. All of them.

She had, hadn’t she? Regardless of whether she was chosen by the Maker’s Bride or not.

Maker, if she really _was_ just some simple apostate who’d stood her ground alone against such a monster…

“Herald?” he called out, just as a burst of laughter erupted from inside the tent. Sera, Finley, Varric and…Dorian? Lovely. He was fairly certain that the three of them had other places to sleep, though they’d made themselves at home with the Herald.

The tent flap opened and Varric blinked up at him. His expression was serious a moment before he grinned at Cullen, motioning him inside. “Curly, come on in. You could use a smile.” As Cullen stooped into the tent to see the four of them were huddled near the center, blankets and the like wrapped around them and cards both in hand and spread out on someone’s bed roll between them, Varric pointed to him, shuffling back over to take a seat. He and Dorian scooted to the side a bit to give Cullen room to sit with them. “You probably don’t know so much, Sparkler, but Curly here has a long history of frowning. He needs to lighten up a bit.” Varric looked back at Cullen, patting the ground beside him. “Want me to deal you in, next hand?”

Finley was shuffling her cards slowly, inspecting each one with great care before moving on to the next. Sera leaned toward her a little, gaze not quite focused on her hand. Finley’s gaze never left her cards. “If you cheat, I’m telling.”

With a scowl and an eye roll, Sera sat back.

“Come now, Commander,” Dorian encouraged. “You’ve little to lose. We’re not playing for money, as it seems our Finley hasn’t any.”

“I’ve no need for coin,” Finley murmured, still inspecting her cards with that same care. “Tis the product of a world that needs to assign value to everything, when value cannot be so easily—”

“Yes, yes, you love trees and like to skip through meadows with wyvern, we know,” Dorian patted her arm. He looked pointedly at Cullen. “Do say you’ll join?”

Coughing into his hand, Cullen found himself taking a seat, despite himself. “What are you playing for, then?”

“Stories,” Dorian said, eyes lighting up. “And there’ve been some good ones, so far.”

“How’s that work, then? Loser tells a story?” Cullen asked, eyeing the cards and then Finley.

“That’s the look of a man with a plan,” Varric snickered. “And yes. The loser has to tell a story, of the winner’s choosing.” He pointed to Sera and then to Dorian. “So if Sera wins, she can ask Dorian—”

“Why am _I_ the loser in this scenario?” Dorian objected, feigning indignation.

“Someone has to be.” With an eye roll, Varric resumed his explanation, “So if Sera wins, she can ask Dorian to tell a specific kind of story, like—”

“Like a dirty one,” Sera chipped in, smirking. She cackled. “It’s been fun, yeah? So only join if you can lighten up a little.”

Cullen had noticed that Sera didn’t seem particularly fond of him, especially after the red templar had first hurt Herald Finley. He’d found burrs in his socks twice while he was at Haven, put against the cloth to form little frowning faces, so that he couldn’t mistake them for an accident. There had been other little things, as well. He’d come back to his room one night to find his bed had been remade—or just turned—so that the pillows were where he usually had his feet. Another time, he’d come into the war room to find the war table had a different leg wobbling instead of the original one he’d been struggling to fix for weeks.

Little things that had no clear perpetrator. Yet whenever he’d find one of these things, within five minutes, he’d see Sera watching him, eyes narrowed.

And Leliana had said she knew Sera was responsible for one or two of the…pranks.

If he were more ‘fun’, he’d probably try to get her back. However, there was too much to do.

In the end, he’d just dragged Finley to the side and asked her to have a word or two with Sera. That had been a few days before Sera had found them sleeping together.

The pranks _had_ let up, though, Cullen wasn’t sure if it was because of their talk or because of what Sera had seen. Or perhaps…

Perhaps he didn’t know what went through that elf’s head.

They’d actually gotten along decently until the retreat from Haven.

Her fury at leaving her friend behind had been…

He was half surprised she hadn’t thrown anything at him yet. While they may have found Herald Finley, Sera had yet to forgive him for ‘losing’ her to begin with.

Cullen blinked when he realized the four were watching him and scratched at the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose I could sit in and watch? I’ve never been one for cards.”

“I don’t mind.” Finley shrugged. Her gaze darted from her cards to him and—as soon as she realized he’d caught her staring—back.

He wondered if this lot knew her secret, too.

“Prig’s got to tell a story every once in a while, if he wants to stay,” Sera objected. “Nothing’s free.”

“Oh, definitely,” Varric grinned, finally playing a card. As Sera examined her own cards, he looked over at Cullen. “How about you go while we finish this hand? You can choose the type, but it has to be something light and fun.” Varric’s smile slipped as he shook his head, pausing to look around and see whose turn it was. “We’ve all had enough dreary for a while.”

“More like forever,” Sera muttered. Finley and Dorian nodded, most solemn.

Scratching his chin, Cullen considered the proposition before finally nodding. He’d come to talk to Finley, but that could wait an hour or so, surely.

And it did feel like it had been ages since he’d had something to smile about. “Alright. I think I have one. Back when I was training to be a templar, when I was around fifteen, I got into a fight with a fellow trainee over whether or not witches were real…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the wonderful 0wallie0 for beta-reading, and to everyone who reads <3


	43. The Commander

Varric had returned to his own tent, and Sera and Dorian were passed out, curled up tightly in the few blankets they’d been afforded. Commander Rutherford looked like he might nod off at any moment, but he was still awake, somehow.

They’d finally managed to get him to play. He was about as bad at reading the others as Finley was, but unlike _her_ , _he_ was easier to read. So while Finley typically came out somewhere in the middle, with people not able to tell if she had a good hand or not—half the time she didn’t really know herself—they’d been able to read him like a book, and by the time everyone was nodding off, he’d told the majority of the stories.

They’d mostly been from before he became an actual templar, though he had offered one of a time when he had to make a house call to Varric’s friend’s manor in Kirkwall. It had been a new dimension added to the great Garrett Hawke, though Varric had been cackling as he listened, unperturbed at the risk to his friend’s reputation. Apparently there had been flashing lights in the windows, and the neighbors had been convinced that the Champion of Kirkwall was dealing with mages. The commander hadn’t been able to stress enough how Garrett was a warrior, always swinging around a two handed blade, even in crowds of people. He’d never hit any innocents, that the ex-templar had known of—Varric had been quick to agree—but it had been annoying. One of his friends, a captain of the guard, had had her hands full dealing with him.

But that night, it had been mage related, so Commander Rutherford had been woken up in the middle of the night because obviously regular templars couldn’t be sent to the Hawke estate. It would need to be at least a knight-captain—Finley had been curious to know he’d been a higher ranking templar, as she’d very rarely dealt with those in the Wilds.

He’d mentioned before that he’d been a knight-commander for a while, and she wondered how that was different. She’d never really known much about ranks and the like, as her goal was always simply to outrun them, regardless of who in their little bands might outrank the others.

His story, though…

Cullen had led a few others down to the Hawke estate, and they had done their best to take the threat seriously. It was hard to take anything seriously when Garrett was involved, apparently—something Varric had again agreed with.

If there had been mages there, by the time Commander Rutherford showed up, they were gone, with only Garrett and his love, Isabela there to greet them. The two had been naked and more than happy to encourage the templars to sleep over and make the night a _real_ party.

They never had figured out what had caused those lights.

Varric _hadn’t_ commented on that.

However, the memory had brought a smile to the commander’s face, and it had eased the circles under his eyes, the weariness in his shoulders. Even in the dim candle light—despite Dorian’s offers, Sera had insisted he keep his magic to himself—Commander Rutherford had looked…handsome.

It was a passing notion, fleeting, really. Now he looked as he always did, a stern, worn man.

Or so Finley kept telling herself.

Despite it all, she kept finding her gaze lingering on him, and her mind wandering back to when she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder.

She wasn’t sure what to make of him anymore. There was this odd hope, barely a whisper in the back of her mind, that he was someone she could truly trust.

Varric had just left, and she wasn’t sure if she should ask their commander to leave, or invite him to stay and pass out with the rest of them. They didn’t really have enough blankets, though.

It was odd. Before the attack on Haven, it would have been a given that she’d want to keep some space between them. However…

He’d come back for her.

Yes, it hadn’t been just him, but he’d led them. He’d come back. Even in the Wilds, she could count on one hand the number of times anyone had ever thought her worth stopping for. Almost all of those instances had been during the Blight, too, when she and the other mages had agreed that they needed to keep together to outsmart and outlast the darkspawn horde.

While it was true that the inquisition likely needed its Herald, this hadn’t been an instance of her slipping and falling a few yards behind. They’d had to scour the valley for her.

And they had.

He had.

Perhaps it was foolish, but it meant more to her than she suspected any of them could know.

And so, despite reason and past experience, she found that she couldn’t bring herself to completely mistrust him.

It made her feel clumsy and awkward around him.

“May I speak with you outside?” Commander Rutherford interrupted her musings. His voice was low as he motioned over his shoulder, the action a little sluggish. He needed his sleep. However, the glimmer in his amber eyes said he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Quietly shirking her blanket, she managed to step around the sleeping duo. By the time she was past them, he was already outside. She ducked beneath the tent flap as quickly as she could, so as not to let too much of the cold sweep in.

He waited until she had paced over to him to start walking. Camp was quiet, with everyone sans a few guards curled up into their sparse selection of tents. In the end, that wasn’t so bad. Four or five people to a tent kept people warmer, or at least Finley figured it must.

One of the guards nodded to them as they passed, his lips just barely quivering from the cold.

She hoped they would find the keep soon.

It wasn’t until they could barely feel the heat from one of the outermost camp fires that Cullen finally stopped, his boots crunching into the snow softly. Her boots did the same.

“This is about my name, isn’t it?” she whispered, looking at him and then away, off toward the pines that grew in the distance. They were little more than eerie shapes in the darkness.

She…liked him, but she hadn’t quite been able to make out his opinion regarding her name—or lack thereof. Did he think it a betrayal that she’d lied? She hadn’t meant it as one.

And if he did think that, maybe she ought to be the one who was offended…

“It’s about your past,” he corrected, his voice quiet. Even so, it seemed a bit too loud in the stillness, and he lowered it further as he continued. “If you’ve anything in it that could be used against us, we _need_ to know.”

She picked at her sleeve. Despite the holes her clothes had accumulated during her run in with the archdemon, she hadn’t anything to change into, and so what string could be spared had been used to mend the gashes and tears in the fabric. It left her looking almost as patchworked at Cole. “Such as?”

“How did your magic come in?” Cullen crossed his arms, rocking from heel to toe once as he stared down at his feet. “The common narrative is that you either can’t or refuse to use fire spells and the like, so finding out that you burned down a house would be damaging, though I’m sure Josephine could find some redemption story there in regards to why you don’t cast such spells now.”

“I’ve never been able to use offensive spells,” Finley said, her voice a bit strained. It wasn’t exactly a lie. She did focus on defensive spells. Better to outrun the templars that to kill one and draw more out searching. She ran her fingers through her hair and tugged her braid over her shoulder, playing with it idly. “And my magic…my first spell was a healing spell. I would rather not say more on the matter.”

She heard an incredulous laugh and looked up to see that Commander Rutherford was watching her, disbelief plain on his face. His brow arched as he looked her over, skeptical. “You…healed someone. Your very first brush with magic was healing?”

Shoulders slumping, she rolled her eyes and huffed. Had he not heard the last part? “Perhaps my magic had been stirring before then, but it hadn’t manifested. I hadn’t made any candles flicker brighter, no objects floating, nothing.” One end of the ribbon she used for her hair was frayed, and it finally began to unravel, catching on one of her fingers and leaving a long string to hang loosely. She scowled at it. “Then one of my t—friends was hurt. They said he would die. I didn’t want him to.” She brought her ribbon up and carefully bit off the string, trying not to make a face at how disgusting the cloth tasted when it accidentally hit her tongue. “Suddenly there was this part of me, and I knew I could make things better.” She paused. “Well, that’s not true. That part was always there…it was just…more focused?”

“And so you healed him? Just like that?” He took a step closer to her.

Her eyes widened at the skepticism in his voice, and she crossed her arms. “Tis not like I wiggled my fingers, and he was all better, Commander Rutherford. The spell was appallingly crafted, all emotions and no structure. I pressed my hands into him and healed the worst of it. I don’t even know what the problem was, really…” As she thought back, she tilted her head, eyes unfocused. “A punctured lung, perhaps? I don’t know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But I healed the worst of it. I healed the part that would have killed him right away, but infection and blood loss could have ended him too, had there not been anyone around to sew him up and tend to him. It took almost all of my magic, and I was unconscious for a day or two after.”

“So these sleeping spells of yours are quite common,” Cullen tried to joke. When she rolled her eyes toward him slowly, he couldn’t help a quick smirk. It didn’t quite leave him as he tilted his head, gaze never leaving her. “You’re a healer, through and through.”

“I am.” It surprised her a little as she agreed. She’d never really considered herself thus before the Conclave. Did she heal? Yes. But she hadn’t gone out of her way to do so, instead choosing isolation where she could tend to plants and animals…in a largely healing capacity.

Perhaps her need to pretend wasn’t as great as she’d thought. Or perhaps it was like she’d thought when she was a child: pretend hard enough, and it will be real.

Commander Rutherford’s hands were resting on the pommel of his blade in his usual relaxed stance. She’d always assumed tension had brought his hands there before, but perhaps it was because, like her, he just never knew what to do with them. “And this friend you saved, he hadn’t a name for you?”

Kind eyes and a friendly laugh echoed in her head. “No. Nothing you’d count as a name. Nicknames, maybe.”

For a moment, she thought he would ask further about that, but instead, he simply moved on. It was a blessing and a curse. “And your parents never named you?”

She flinched, without meaning to. The memories of them were still too fresh in her mind, the blizzard having conjured rather melancholy times. She would have rather had it draw her back to thinking of the Conclave, terrible as that sounded. “I was very little when they died. If they had a name for me, I do not know it.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I have never practiced blood magic or conjured demons. I have never harbored blood mages from templars. Truthfully, I avoid them whenever I can, on the rare occasion I do cross paths with one. I have never killed a templar…before joining the Inquisition, and the only ones I killed then were either infected with red lyrium or mad from the war with the rebel mages. Surely these truths matter more than whether Finley was given to me by a mother or friend or just myself?”

Cocking his head, Cullen motioned toward her. “When you lived in the Wilds, the Avvar and Chasind never had names for you?”

“I was little more than a passing guest in their lands, at best, so no. They referred to me as magic-touched or a wanderer sometimes, but never gave me any names.”

Cullen crossed his arms at that, considering her words. “That sounds like you didn’t live with the Avvar.”

“I did stay at a hold or two during the Blight. But those times caused all kinds of madness.” She shrugged. Why did who she had stayed with matter? Perhaps she oughtn’t to tell him anything about the Wilds at all, but… “They’ve certain practices when it comes to magic that I don’t agree with.”

“Like what?”

“No.” She held up her finger, face drawn. She might not mind telling him little things about herself, but others were still well out of bounds. “I’ll not tell you their secrets so that you can march these templars against them. They’ve their ways, and those ways have worked for them for a very long time. We lowlanders simply do not understand things as they do. Leave it at that.”

Even in the dim starlight, she could see how he’d tensed at her comments. However, rather than argue, he simply took in a deep breath through his nose. Closing his eyes, he considered what she’d said before nodding. “Fair enough. So long as their secrets are not yours—”

“As I said, they aren’t.”

“And there is nothing in your history that could be used to paint you, and consequentially the Inquisition, in a negative light?”

“Is there anything in _your_ past that could be used to make the Inquisition look bad?” She retorted, leaning toward him, brow arched, hands clasped behind her back.

He seemed genuinely surprised and took a step back before looking away and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not the Herald of Andraste.”

“Neither am I.” She rocked back, placing her hands on her hips and drumming her fingers against them slowly. “That darkspawn said—”

“I told you before that I am a man of faith,” Cullen interrupted. He reached out and caught her braid, letting it fall slowly from his fingers. A trill ran up her spine, and she didn’t bother to try to tell herself it was from the cold. She held her breath as he kept talking. “And I choose to keep that faith and not to believe some twisted monster, when it is rather apparent that you are a force for good.”

Her heart damn near stopped.

The number of times people had said, unprompted, that they knew she was good was fewer than the number of times people had come back for her.

The light flickered in his eyes, making them gleam, and accenting the contours of his face. His stubble was almost long enough to be called a proper beard. She had the oddest urge to run her fingers across his jaw and feel his stubble prickle against her palm.

Looking back at the camp, she simply sighed. “Well, then. I should think that’s all there is to it, isn’t there?”

“I suppose so,” he motioned back to the tents and began to walk slowly, their feet seeking their earlier prints, to make the path back a little easier. As they grew close enough to hear the soft crackle of flame, he lightly put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. For talking to me instead of just trying to give me a headache.”

Finley patted his hand, awkwardly, hoping that he’d assume any flush to her cheeks was from the cold. “Someone keeps reminding me that we do work together, commander.”

“I should, uh, go make certain that nothing has gone awry before I go to sleep,” he murmured, already scanning the tents for any signs of distress. There wouldn’t be any, but he would be vigilant, and make sure that everyone was safe before he dared to close his eyes.

Sera wasn’t the only one who blamed him for what had happened at Haven. She could tell.

He walked with her back to her tent and stopped in front of it, briefly, to give her a swift bow. “Good night, Herald.”

For the first time, she didn’t mind that title so much. Another shiver ran up her spine as she nodded. “Good night, Commander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 and creepypasta-queen- for beta reading, and to everyone who reads <3


	44. Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 and creepypasta-queen- on tumblr for beta reading, and to everyone who reads and comments <3

If Varric had been forced to choose a word to describe Curly or Stardust before this afternoon, he would have just fallen back on his nicknames for them, spouting some bullshit about hidden meanings or representation.

People would be too busy laughing off the way he’d say it to realize it was the truth.

Curly suited the commander not just because it was a call back and reminder of those wild, unruly curls that he’d finally managed to tame, but because it was a parallel to his past and quite possibly his very nature: something he tried desperately to hide from people and to forget about himself.

Stardust fit the Herald not just because of the eeriness of her eyes, but because such a thing was otherworldly, never quite belonging, regardless of where it fell.

The names suited both commander and Herald while being light enough that one might overlook any hidden meaning.

Or they had.

Of late, however, Stardust seemed to be settling in quite nicely. Maybe he was just growing fond of her—she was hardly the most dislikeable mage he’d ever met—but she was definitely starting to feel like she belonged there amidst the rest of them.

Namely it was the way that she _didn’t_ belong that made her fit in.

None of them really meshed, in Varric’s mind. While it was hell for coming to agreements, it certainly made the story interesting. The characters were so diverse, too. The kidnapped writer, the single-minded seeker, the Tevinter pariah, the qunari spy, the list went on. No one, single person seemed a good fit for the Inquisition, when examined on their own, and so Stardust seemed more and more to be one of the guys, so to speak.

She would have fit in perfectly with the Kirkwall crew.

However, she was about as paranoid as Blondie had been near the end—albeit neither mage’s fears were without cause. Regardless, what would have normally been a fully welcomed friendship left him a bit uneasy when she got too nervous.

Like something might explode.

After all, Blondie had been a healer, too—likely still was, assuming Justice or Vengeance or whatever that thing was hadn’t completely taken over whatever had made Blondie _him_.

At least Stardust didn’t seem to be possessed.

That had seemed to be the one real hiccup with Blondie. If he’d never been possessed, he wouldn’t have gone mad. Daisy may have practiced blood magic, but she had never…

And Daisy was still off helping mages, too. For all the blood she dabbled in, she still helped, debatably far more than Blondie ever had.

Or perhaps Varric was just bitter about how things had ended in Kirkwall. He tried to remember Blondie as he had been, before everything had gone so wrong. He tried to remember him as the healer of Darktown instead of the one who had rained destruction over the entire city.

Varric’s city. His home.

Varric was all for mage rights—Hawke was a staunch supporter, wanting his beloved little sister to have the same opportunities in life that everyone else was given—but Blondie had sentenced an entire Circle to death, along with hundreds of innocent lives throughout the city, just to get things out of that miserable stalemate between the templars and mages in Kirkwall.

Couldn’t Blondie have found a way to blow up the templars instead? Or done something that wouldn’t have gotten Thedas’ largest Circle unjustly annulled and half the city razed? Maker, if Sunshine had been caught by the templars instead of struck with the Blight and sent off to be a warden, she could have been one of the many mages who fell.

If it had just been the templars or even just the grand cleric that he’d gone after…

Had Blondie had his options slowly whittled away by an uncaring, psychopathic, already-borderline-sociopathic-bitch-before-she’d-gotten-a-contact-high-from-red-lyrium knight-commander who wanted even _more_ power than she already possessed?

Yes.

But still…there _had_ to have been another way.

It kept Varric up sometimes, trying to figure out that secret, _other_ way that things could have gone. That way that wouldn’t have ended with Blondie being the most hunted mage in all of southern Thedas.

Varric was a fucking writer, wasn’t he? How hard was it to think of a plot twist?

Why was it that when he tried to think of any way that things could have turned out well, his mind just drew a huge blank?

It’s no wonder that Blondie fell to what he had, especially with that thing whispering in his head that there could be no compromise. Maybe it was right, but…there had to have been something he could have done that wouldn’t have destroyed so much of Kirkwall in the process.

Something that wouldn’t have reminded people why their ancestors had begun locking away mages to begin with.

That thing in Blondie’s head had fueled his self-righteous anger into something inhuman.

Into Vengeance.

Really, it came down to too many voices in one head.

With all the characters that bounced around in Varric’s, he sometimes wondered how different a mage’s mind really was. It was horrible to even consider a villain from a novel to be on par with a demon whispering hideous promises in someone’s head, and so Varric kept most of his musings to himself.

Though, keeping such thoughts in his head did make it harder to get answers.

A true conundrum. Perhaps he could ask Chuckles or Stardust about it sometime. Maybe they could give him some insight that could help him understand. He could claim it was for a book rather than his own desperate need to understand what had pushed Blondie to the edge.

He’d have to be careful how he approached Stardust, though. With the way she jumped at the mention of demons or blood magic, she’d probably think he was accusing _her_ of something.

What could have actually happened in her history to make her think that everyone wanted to bring her to a blade?

That was another story that drew too many blanks.

For all his skill as a published novelist, he couldn’t imagine the torments that went on in the lives of the people he knew now. He didn’t want to imagine them hurting, being betrayed…

Maybe he couldn’t find the answers he wanted for the same reason he would never be a competent spymaster. At the end of the day, he cared too much for these people to stand to see them suffer.

And maybe that was why he didn’t want to get too close to Stardust. Maybe it wasn’t the parallel between her and Blondie at all. Maybe it was just the fact that heroes never had happy stories, and she already seemed to have been through too much.

She was  _so_  paranoid.

He’d warned Nightingale and Curly, tried to anyway. Told them she was going to be hard to get through to. That they’d need to be gentle and even then…

And what had they done?

Not much.

Honestly, he’d expected that from the commander. After all, in Kirkwall, Curly had been mostly active in hunting mages, rather than dealing with any problems there might be in the Gallows. As it had stood, Meredith was the one to fear inside the Circle, and Curly was the one to fear outside of it.

Varric found it hard to believe that anyone could simply walk away from a life like that, even if Curly did claim to be a different man now.

And when he’d first seen him with Stardust, Varric had assumed that he was right.

He’d seen her shying away from Curly almost every time he was a stone’s throw away. He’d seen Curly get frustrated, no doubt drawing his own parallels to pasts that he didn’t want shadowing him here. Nightingale had stood back and watched, rarely interacting with the precious Herald of Andraste, instead choosing to let Curly flounder his way through conversations and arguments.

That they’d been able to form whatever it was they had now was just…

Varric wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Perhaps he’d misjudged Curly.

After all, if holes could open in the sky and darkspawn magisters could conjure archdemons, it seemed like almost anything was possible.

Every time the stoic commander was around Stardust, it was a little harder to see the knight-captain from Kirkwall. Every time she darted near him, keeping just a little less space between them than the day before, it almost looked like…

Varric wasn’t a fan of sappy romances, perhaps that’s why he grimaced at the thought. Those two were certainly from different, well, everything. Backgrounds, opinions, minds, worlds.

They didn’t have anything in common. At all.

And he’d always hated that opposites attract bullshit.

Even so…

Curly did have a tendency to watch her with an odd and slowly growing tenderness, especially since finding her after the avalanche. He almost hovered, though it was never enough that he could be accused of forgetting his duties. Maker forbid that man take a break. He was still ever the dutiful commander, but when it came to Stardust…

It was almost like he had a heart.

That Varric could even consider that of the knight-captain—and then knight-commander—of Kirkwall was anything less than a callous prick was…

Yes, people had layers, but Curly’s had all been fear and hatred born of that fear. _Mages weren’t people._ That sort of nonsense. There had been some sort of shift during their time in Kirkwall, not that Varric could really pinpoint it. He hadn’t really paid attention to Curly more than to make sure his mage friends would be safe.

The knight-captain had stood against the knight-commander, though, so there was that.

And he certainly didn’t look at Stardust like he thought she wasn’t a person.

When had that even started? Buttercup claimed it had been before the avalanche, around the time that the first red templar had nearly killed their beloved Herald.

Whenever it had started, it hadn’t really hit Varric until this afternoon.

He was traveling with Stardust, Buttercup, and Sparkler at the head of their miserable procession through the mountains, trying—and failing—to explain that snowball fights did _not_ need to become a morning ritual to Buttercup and Stardust when Chuckles joined them for the first time ever. That was the first hint that something was going to be different about today.

Chuckles and Stardust took the lead, with Buttercup falling back to sulk with Varric, angry that the ‘elfie elf’ was there to bother them all—the tale behind that was another story with too many blanks. Sparkler was amused by Buttercup’s anger—the two didn’t exactly get along, though Sparkler didn’t seem too keen on making friends with anyone in particular—but Varric was hopeful.

If Chuckles was willing to take lead, either they were so far off track that they were never going to find that Maker-forsaken fortress, or…

Or it was visible over the next ridge they came to.

He knew the second Stardust froze on that ledge, her breath catching in her throat.

Then, quite literally out of nowhere, she whirled around and hugged Chuckles.

No one had seen that coming.

Not even Chuckles.

After all, Stardust didn’t seem to be much of a fan of physical contact herself.

And yet…

Chuckles stood there, eyes wide, easily in the most awkward situation he’d been in in a long time. Even as he lifted a hand to try to pat her back, she let him go, whirling around to motion the rest of them up. Her eyes shone with that eerie, ethereal flicker like she was casting some sort of spell right there to make them move faster.

The three of them picked up their paces, with Varric cursing his shorter legs as Sera trotted over the damned snow, and Dorian shuffled forward. The view was worth it, though.

The valley below was huge, a vast swatch of white spreading out in every direction to meet sheer mountains, their dark cliff faces forming a huge, outer wall, allowing only two or three narrow entry points into the valley itself, aside from one long, winding river.

At the center, though. There was the gem.

Skyhold.

It was a keep to be envied. Even from where they stood, they could make out the towers that speared up into the air, almost as though trying to puncture the clouds overhead. The walls were massive, and the hold sat on a smaller mountain in the center of the valley—it was as though the earth itself had been shaped to fit Skyhold where it was.

There was one long bridge leading to the castle. It was probably another day or two away, depending on how hard of a climb down it was going to be.

Though…

They could direct the majority of their group toward one of the access points, now that they could see them and tell them apart from just another ravine.

Even as they took it in, Stardust whirled away from them, her braid swinging about with all its wild tangles and loose strands flying freely like little banners behind her.

She was a few yards back down the side of the ridge they’d come up before Varric called out to her. “Where are you going?”

“To let the others know we’re almost there!”

She called it over her shoulder, her pace surprisingly fast on the trek back down.

Varric could swear he could see magic glimmering under her footfalls, keeping her from falling through the snow or leaving footprints. She seemed oblivious that she was casting.

He frowned as he considered that she was heading back to templars.

“How about I go with you?” Varric called after her, grinning when she turned to give him a questioning look. “They can’t think we’re bullshitting them if we all say we’ve seen it, right?”

“You think they’d think we’re making it up?” Finley’s enthusiasm wavered a little. The magic underfoot was gone.

Good.

If a bit of disappointment meant she wouldn’t be making templars bristle, Varric could live with that. After all, it might be good to keep at least a little of that paranoia. He’d heard one or two of the templars say less than flattering things—dangerous things, honestly—in regards to their dear apostate Herald and her interest in the rebel mages, as well as her quick decision to disband the Order.

Varric doubted it was a quick decision, but rather something every mage pretty much dreamed about from the time they were first ripped away from their families. He’d tried to ask Stardust about her choice once, but she’d sidestepped all his questions, leaving him in the dark.

It wasn’t a fun place to be.

“Well, you two have fun. I’m not walking all the way back just to come this way again,” Dorian offered, shuffling over to a large rock sticking up from the snow and making himself comfortable.

Varric had just caught up to Finley as Sera darted back down with them. “Watcha wanna bet a bunch of these blokes shite themselves when they see the keep’s real?”

Even as Finley rolled her eyes and responded, Varric glanced back to check to see if Chuckles was going or staying.

He remained where he’d been when he first showed Stardust the keep, eyes still wide, though he’d turned his gaze to Skyhold. There was something there in the way he was looking over those towering walls, as though he weren’t sure he’d done the right thing.

How could saving the lot of them from frostbite be anything but?

Without wanting to, Varric thought of Blondie.

Was he really going to think of him every time a mage didn’t have a smile plastered to their face? It wasn’t like they were _all_ scheming against the rest of the world.

Blondie really had hurt mages’ reputations.

He’d reminded people why mages were feared to begin with. Even if the concoction he’d made had been alchemical rather than magical.

And there were plenty of good mages. Like Sunshine and Daisy…and Stardust.

Sparkler and Chuckles and the Iron Lady, too, perhaps.

It was still a little too soon to make that call, at least in Varric’s mind.

The walk back, despite there being the same amount of that miserable snow, seemed to take half the time. Maybe it was because they were going downhill.

Maybe it was because they knew they were almost there.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t long before they were weaving their way back through other travelers. Finley stopped the first few and directed them toward the nearest easier access point. Varric had to say he was surprised she could remember the layout of the area so well. He’d never really seen her lead per se, and he suddenly wondered just how good her sense of direction was.

It would make sense for her to be very keen in that regards. She had evaded templars for decades.

Once the others were set on the right track, they were moving through the group, spreading the word. More than that, he could see Finley’s head turning this way and that, inspecting each person they passed, looking for something. Or rather, someone.

Varric felt his heart sink as he realized who.

He’d tried to warn her, but he wasn’t sure how to bring that up. ‘Be careful of Curly, he may seem nice now, but ideologies like thinking mages aren’t people don’t just go away overnight, and I wouldn’t want him to…’

To what?

So far as Varric knew, Curly’s main sins were negligence and turning a blind eye. He’d done his best to be out of the Gallows more than in them, generally hunting escaped mages or the many, many, many blood mages that wandered Kirkwall’s streets. Having a second in command who was barely present when it counted had probably made it easier for Meredith to run things as she pleased.

Maker, that was probably why she’d promoted him. Give him free reign to rein in the mages, and let her do as she pleased in her own private corner of the void.

Still.

Curly might not have been complicit in the atrocities committed against the mages, and the current narrative was that he was trying to make something better of himself, but…

Perhaps Varric should have a talk with Stardust after all. Better to warn her and have nothing happen than to not and wake up to find her tranquil or worse.

“If you go up that way, you can see it, but we thought it would be better to travel that way and avoid having to go down the mountain slope, so it will be a little longer before most people will get a good view…” Finley’s words were tumbling over themselves as she spoke, a bit too quickly thanks to her enthusiasm bubbling up.

When Varric blinked out of his thoughts, he frowned. Stardust had found her mark and was trotting back toward them, Curly matching her pace as he listened to her, that gentle look in his eyes as he laughed when she said something Varric was too flabbergasted to catch.

Before today, if asked to describe the commander and the Herald in a word, he’d have fallen back on their nicknames.

Now, though, watching as Curly listened to Stardust describe the keep—with a bit of an audience gathering closer and Sera interjecting a few times to add her own observations—and seeing the way that her face lit up as she met his gaze and the way his smile twitched up a little higher when she looked his way... For the first time, a different word came to mind. One Varric certainly wouldn’t have figured would fit into this tale.

They were cute.

And he wasn’t sure what to make of that.


	45. A Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading!

One of the first things Cullen had done when they’d gotten to Skyhold—after a quick tour of the battlements, of course—had been to set up a small station where he could receive and send reports. It was just inside the gate, near the infirmary that had sprung up as the injured were guided into their new—and hopefully more secure—haven. It was central enough that he could get reports from anywhere in the castle in a decent amount of time, and he was fairly pleased with the simplicity that had gone into this. Everything was falling into place, almost well enough that he could imagine the defeat at Haven had merely been a hiccup in their plans.

Almost.

Still, even with the promise of safety within these walls, there was so much to do. The castle needed to be cleared of debris, repairs were in order, the armory needed to be stocked, supply lines established, soldiers housed, food lines secured…the list went on. While technically some of the matters didn’t strictly fall under his jurisdiction, he’d taken them on anyway. The more work he had, the less time he had to think about Kinloch Hold or Kirkwall…or Haven.

Maker, ill luck seemed to follow him.

Or perhaps it was simply an odd luck. As he considered it, he reached down to feel his pocket for a small trinket he kept with him at all times. It was a coin, one his brother Branson had given to him years ago, when he’d left for the Order. Even though templars weren’t supposed to have anything with them from outside of the Order, he’d kept it, a reminder of the life he’d left behind, and the people he wanted to keep safe.

It was there, sitting comfortably in his vest’s pocket. With a sigh, he listened to the next scout’s report and then sent him off to see about finding cutlery and some cooks for the kitchens. The next report was on scouts’ successes in finding wild game in the surrounding area, and the next was about the templars who had been due at Haven. They were making their way to Skyhold, and the message said they would be able to arrive in a week or so—possibly after the mages. That was not something he was looking forward to, though he prayed any skirmishes between the factions would be minor.

The last thing they needed now was to have the inquisition tear _itself_ apart.

They’d arrived at Skyhold the night before, though very few had gotten any sleep. There was just too much that required attention. The need to be better prepared this time weighed on everyone’s minds, spurring them on.

Cullen sent a particularly zealous scout named Jim to see where Leliana was in regards to contacting their suppliers of goods, hoping that he would be able to gauge what renovations could be prepped for before their first shipments of lumber and stone arrived. As the scout disappeared up the stairs into the upper courtyard, Cullen took in a long, slow breath and looked around.

For the first time in what felt like ages, there was no one present to give him any reports. While it wouldn’t last, it would give him a chance to catch up on other matters, including the few field reports he had in regards to the Hinterlands and surrounding areas. He’d been setting them aside as more and more immediate matters were brought to light.

Cullen gathered them slowly, glancing around every few seconds to see if any other scouts were coming his way. His legs were stiff from standing in one place after all that walking, and his back was beginning to ache. At least it wasn’t his head for once.

He’d barely slept at all in the last…well, he barely slept as it was, but in the last few weeks, it had been worse. His dreams had constantly nettled him, berating him for the shoddy job he’d done in protecting Haven.

He needed to be sure that people were safe here. He should have insisted on better fortifications for Haven. There should have been more trebuchets. There were a million little things that could have been done that would have averted or, in the very least, lessened the disaster there.

Well, assuming there hadn’t been an archdemon. That creature tended to put a kink into every one of his theories on how they could have better defended themselves.

No one was coming by.

He set the reports down again and stretched his arms over his shoulders and then cracked his back, shifting his weight to kick each of his legs. He needed to move.

Or to sit. Though…his legs might cramp up if he did that.

After a short internal debate, he decided it was worth it to try. His other option, aside from reports, was to join in with the clearing of debris, and that wasn’t much of an option, truth be told. He’d managed to help for about an hour that morning before the scouts searching for him had become more cumbersome to the task than anything, and he’d excused himself from the manual labor if only to keep the area clear for people who weren’t having to stop every few minutes to listen to a new update about another part of the keep.

It irked him that the best way he could help was simply to stay out of the way.

Well, that and coordinate efforts across the castle.

Still…it felt like he was cheating, somehow. Taking the easy road, so to speak, though someone had to do this job, and he _did_ already have the title.

Even as Cullen picked up the papers and looked around for a quiet spot to sit where he wouldn’t be tripping people coming and going, soft footfalls sounded from behind him. He turned, fully expecting another scout ready to let him know that some part of the castle was structurally unsound or damaged or…

Instead, he found Herald Finley.

Rather than her usual braid, Finley’s hair was up in a cluttered bird’s nest of a bun on the top of her head, long, long wisps of orange falling down around her face and the back of her neck.

He felt a tingling shiver through him that he tried to ignore. He tried to push whatever it was from his mind, not wanting to seem unprofessional.

“Commander.” She dipped her head.

He straightened up and then bowed sharply. “Herald.”

Her lips quirked as she began to speak, and for just an instant, he thought he saw a softness sparkle in her eyes. It was gone in a blink. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring this to you or not, but we’re running low on healing herbs.” Her brow pinched together as she glanced back at the infirmary. Solas and the Chargers’ Stitches—as well as a dozen other healers—were busy tending to the wounded.

Cullen frowned when he thought he saw a blonde boy there, too, for just a moment. Hadn’t he wanted to speak with the Inquisitor about that boy? Why was it…?

When he looked back down at her, he saw that she was waiting for an answer, and he rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze when he noticed how the light played on her skin. Maker, there was so much work to be done. “I think that might fall more into Leliana’s realm. She can likely use one of her birds to contact any sources we had, prior to our relocation.”

“Of course,” Finley nodded and turned to head up the stairs. “I hope I wasn’t distracting you from your work.”

“Not at all,” he insisted. Without thinking, he reached out and caught her hand. She paused, surprised. She’d given up on her makeup for the time being, and the circles that ringed her eyes were from exhaustion. She was paler than usual, as well, her dozens and dozens of freckles sticking out all the more.

If he wasn’t careful, Cullen could get lost trying to memorize them.

Even as she gave him a questioning look, he saw a servant darting past them and caught their attention with a quick word. As the young woman stopped, he asked her for her cause and, finding it complete, motioned up the way Finley had been heading. “Do you know the way up to Sister Leliana’s station?” She nodded. “Would you tell her that we are in need of more healing herbs? Perhaps her scouts can look for them as they explore the area?” After she again nodded and hurried off, Cullen turned back at Herald Finley. “You look like you could use a rest.”

She gave him a stern look, though it wavered easily enough. “There are a great many injured to tend to.”

“Let Solas and the others treat them for now. Everyone needs a break from time to time. Yourself included.”

Looking past him, she seemed to debate it before finally motioning to him with her free hand. When he realized he was still holding her other, he let go. “What of you? Every time I look over here, I see you working, head bent forward, reading reports or giving orders…you barely give yourself time to breathe.”

He almost asked her why she’d be watching him, but stopped himself, feeling oddly self-conscious.

When he didn’t immediately respond, she bobbed her head in farewell and started back toward the infirmary. Her movements were sluggish. She was working herself to the bone.

Tucking the Hinterlands reports under an arm, he darted after her. “I was actually about to go for a walk, to clear my head. Care to join me? If nothing else, we can appraise some of Skyhold’s less traveled areas.” When she paused to eye him as though she suspected he was lying, he gave her a quick half smile. “They’re expecting you to be gone, anyway. I’d wager whoever sent you to find more herbs was hoping to give you a short reprieve.”

She reached up to brush some loose hair behind her ear and then fell into playing with her sleeves. “I suppose a short walk can’t hurt.”

With a nod, he turned on his heels and motioned in the direction of the barn, waiting to set their pace until she’d drawn even with him.

The two walked on in a comfortable silence, letting their gazes wander as they inspected the castle. Cullen found it refreshing, despite his drive to keep busy. So much was going on. As he took the time to really look around, he could hear two women arguing about where scaffolding would go up and which walls to fix first. One of them had been sketching out different sections of the castle. A dozen papers were rolled up and tucked under one arm as she pointed enthusiastically at another sketch and then a wall.

Most people, however, were clearing away fallen debris. Still others were taking measurements for merchants’ stalls. The barn seemed to be fairly intact, and so they’d set about bringing any pieces of wood or stone that might be reusable down to that area to be examined and cut to suit their needs. Warden Blackwall was assisting with that, and Cullen could just make out Sera and Varric testing the durability of some of the larger pieces of fallen support beams and the like that had been dragged out of the main hall—Sera looked more like she was attacking them—as Blackwall hoisted a few rotten planks and started out toward the discard pile. When Herald Finley waved in their direction, Warden Blackwall gave them a small wave back, and Cullen noticed rather suddenly that the man was shirtless.

Without meaning to, he glanced down at Herald Finley to see if she what her reaction was, but her attention had already moved elsewhere. Though…her cheeks did look a little flushed now…

Cullen silently cursed himself, feeling oddly foolish for caring whether she would be interested Warden Blackwall or not.

When he found himself considering that the warden was a bit old for her anyway, Cullen tried to force his mind elsewhere, sure that there was guilt written all over his expression. He had enough to do without debating who his Herald might fancy.

 _Their_.

Their Herald.

She wasn’t just…

Maker, help him.

He tried to think of anything else, aside from the young woman walking beside him and the growing sense of dread that this walk had been a huge mistake.

Everyone was doing their part to make Skyhold their own. Cassandra, Bull, and the Chargers were clearing out debris. Lady Vivienne was writing to her contacts, ones she hadn’t called upon in months, to get more aid, as well as books and other resources that might not immediately spring to Cullen’s mind. Clothing had been one of them. Cobblers were needed, tailors too. Dorian was apparently assisting as well with debris, though he was burning it to ash once it was piled near the barn.

With everything that needed to be done, he doubted anyone would be getting proper rest in the next few days.

Hopefully that would change soon. It had to. With all they’d been through, people couldn’t keep going like this.

He and Finley had wound their way up a few flights of stairs and onto the western ramparts.

Their first batch of supplies would be arriving in three or four days’ time, thanks to Bree Cadash. As soon as they’d seen the castle, she’d convinced Leliana to send a messenger bird to her…family for assistance. Cullen wasn’t sure they would want to be indebted to a carta, but they could hardly turn the help down as they were.

It had been a wretched thing to decide what would be fixed first. There was so much to consider—which buildings needed it the most, whether they should set defensibility or livability as priorities in the repairs, et cetera—and he doubted they’d actually know for sure until they were directing the resources to their destinations. Fortunately, they were relatively close to Orzammar. In addition to Bree’s assistance, Varric and Josephine had written to a few other connections to get them cheap materials, though the inquisition hadn’t heard back from them yet.

Cullen wasn’t sure how they were getting anything when most of their coffers lay beneath feet and feet of snow in Haven.

That, however, was Josephine’s purview, and she handled such things with an ease that would always elude him.

The wind wound its way to the hold, feeling like a gentle spring breeze as it roused Cullen from his thoughts and drew him back into the present. Maker, but the change was welcome. Cullen closed his eyes, letting it wash over him.

A soft laugh made him open one eye to peer over at Finley. She was leaning on her elbows against the battlements, watching him.

“I didn’t think you liked the wind.”

He scratched at the back of his neck and then let his hand fall down to rest on the pommel of his blade. “You have to admit this is nicer than…anything we’ve had to deal with thus far.”  

“It is nice here.”

He matched her smile with an earnest one before, quite abruptly, he realized just how alone he was with her. There were so many people bustling about below, and yet here they were by themselves. She seemed to notice the same thing and looked away, a slight rosy hue flushing her cheeks and neck. He turned his head away as well, coughing to clear his throat.

She pushed away from the battlements, continuing along their path and wandering toward an old wooden door. That any of them were still intact had to be some kind of magic of its own. She tried the handle and bit back a laugh when it came off in her hand. As she pushed it open and peered inside, he walked over to her, following on the adventure.

He had to have come through this area before on his first inspection, yet somehow he hadn’t taken the time to really see it. The tower’s room was a decent size, with a rotted ladder leading up to another floor. Standing at the base of the ladder, he could see holes in the roof. Small slits for windows lined the western wall, while all three others sported a door of their own.

Finley was already opening the eastern one, peering out to see that it led to the path over where his current station had been set up. He tried the northern door. It led back to the ramparts.

“This is nice,” Herald Finley murmured, wandering back toward the ladder. She lightly pressed on one of the rungs, and it snapped beneath her touch. “I guess we can’t explore more until it gets fixed up a bit.”

“This would make a nice office,” Cullen murmured, walking back to the middle. When she tilted her head, curious, he felt something catch in his throat and found himself coughing to clear it, yet again. “I mean, it’s very central. Easy access from almost anywhere in the castle. And I can see out into the valley, too…” He paused when he realized he’d all but claimed the room. “Assuming Leliana won’t want it for her birds, of course.”

“I think she prefers the central tower.” Finley shrugged. “And, as you said, you’ll need to be able to get quickly to any part of the castle, should it be under attack.” She made a sweeping motion to the room with one arm. “Twas made for a commander.”

He couldn’t help a small smile as he walked back to her. “You think?”

“Most definitely.”

Cullen led the way out the eastern door to see if the walkway led to the main building or if it was some side passage that went down to the kitchens or elsewhere. They’d made it about halfway across the walkway when he heard someone call to him. Peering over the low wall spanning the length, he saw two scouts standing at his station, looking about rather helplessly, as though leaving would undoubtedly make him appear and make him cross that they weren’t there. Ser Barris was the one who had seen him. He gave Cullen a quick salute, and the other two followed his gaze and suit.

“I’ll be down in a moment,” he called, sighing as he cast an apologetic look toward Herald Finley. “Duty calls.”

“I should get back, as well,” she murmured. “No shortage of people who need healing, unfortunately.”

“That is a shame.” He opened the door for her and followed her back into the room. He wasn’t sure why he bothered closing it or the next one after them when they were in such disrepair, but it made her smile each time.

The walk back seemed so much faster than it had been going, and it was over far too quickly. When they reached the lower courtyard, Finley gave him another nod and picked up her pace. As she turned away, the light caught her hair just right, making it shine golden and auburn and crimson, like fire tapering off against her slender neck.

That stopped him in his tracks.

Cullen had never noticed how beautifully delicate she looked before.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped in his tracks to watch her until a scout stepped in between them, blocking his view of her. He snapped out of his thoughts, barely able to keep up as the man dutifully began his report. Cullen fought not to narrow his eyes. This was the same scout from before, Jim.

After he’d finished giving the scouts and Ser Barris new orders, he wandered back to his makeshift desk, glancing over toward the infirmary to see if he could spot the Herald amid all the chaos. He caught a glimpse of her for just a moment before she disappeared into one of the tents with another healer, arms laden with bandages.

As he leaned against his table, his earlier aches barely a memory, he realized that he’d never gotten around to reading any of his reports on the Hinterlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	46. One's Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading, and to everyone who reads! I've been taking prompts for Andraste's Witch drabbles over on tumblr, and if you'd like I can post them up here. I might add them to Always Something.

Ever since her walk with Commander Rutherford the day before, things had changed.

For starters, Finley had noticed the way he was watching her, the way his smile stretched a little wider when he was talking to her, and sometimes if their conversation even dared to sweep toward a more personal note, he would stumble over his words and ramble, often changing the subject altogether to something else, like work. Finley couldn’t bring herself to mind. She liked listening to him talk. He had somewhat of a boyish charm to him. His laugh was adorable. And just this morning she’d caught herself smiling at the mere thought of him.

This was the part where one of her friends back home would either tease her about seducing the poor, unsuspecting fool, or warn her that things rarely worked out well when mages fell for templars.

But did he really count as a templar?

She’d mused over that for a little while, or had tried to.

However, it was more than the way she saw her dear commander that had changed overnight.

In fact, foolish as it was, it seemed almost as if the whole world had shifted somehow.

And not because of the throes of romance.

Rather than her world shifting because of one person, it was quite a few. More than that, even. It was as though everyone had just noticed the apostate with the strange eyes and mark on her hand.

Well, not quite.

Back in Haven, she and Sera had made a point of wandering around and helping here and there, but people had always still kept a bit of a distance, so to speak. There was always some reservation about coming up to Finley when she was alone, and Finley had been fine with that.

Alright, not fine. She’d been annoyed because she figured she knew why they were keeping their distance. Despite everything, she was still a mage and still had her unsettling eyes, and the mark had to be intimidating. Often times, she wanted to run from it herself, though it being attached to her somewhat ruined that.

It crackled as though to voice its disapproval with her line of thinking, and she rubbed at her wrist, at the tingling that overtook her whole hand for a few seconds after the mark’s initial crackle. It had been quite some time since she’d closed any rifts, and it seemed to be off put by that fact.

So many were quick to denounce the idea that it was blood magic, but Finley wasn’t so sure. Commander Rutherford had said that it clearly didn’t require blood to use, but Finley had a sinking feeling that blood _had_ made it, and that tainted it in her mind.

She didn’t want to be a blood mage.

She didn’t…

She’d figured that other people had come to the same conclusion, especially quite a few of the templars. She’d figured that they kept their distance because they were biding their time, waiting for accusations of blood magic to come to the surface so that the good people could denounce her and express that they’d never fallen for her act as she was dragged off to face retribution for her crimes.

Even though that was still a fear, it didn’t clutch at her lungs the way it used to. She had people who would help her, she was sure. Whether that meant they’d simply be executed with her was another matter—a horrifying one—but she wasn’t alone anymore.

It was such an odd concept.

She wasn’t alone.

Stranger still, all the people she’d figured most likely to turn on her—mostly everyone—had changed.

Since her walk with the commander, people had been coming up to her, asking her questions. It had gotten to the point that she’d had to step away from the infirmary for a little while, if only to keep the foot traffic there to a minimum. The other healers didn’t need all of the extra people milling about, and she couldn’t very well heal anyone with so many people distracting her. She’d nearly wrapped someone’s bandage too tight before realizing she couldn’t multitask.

People were thanking her for saving them—that made her uneasy, and she kept waiting for the ‘but’ that was inevitably attached to their praise, yet never came—and just giving her updates in general. A woman whose arm she had healed the day before was glad to tell her that it was working good as new. Another man had let her know he’d found some whisky while exploring, and he was more than willing to share, if she was a whisky girl. A small group of hunters had stopped to ask if she knew any spells for hunting or tracking, as they hadn’t had much luck on their last outing.

Finley had dealt with villagers and the like stumbling across her once in a while in the woods, and without thinking, she’d fallen back on one of her usual methods for assuaging their fear of her and making sure they didn’t run to the templars. She’d pulled three small seeds from her belt—she’d managed to keep hold of one, though she’d lost the other in the blizzard—and handed them to the nearest man, telling him to plant them at their first camp or after their first successful kill.

She’d been ready to explain it further, but they’d been ecstatic enough that they hadn’t needed her usual spiel about how giving back to nature made it more willing to part with pieces of itself.

Though she’d wondered if they’d still be impressed when they went to plant the seeds and saw that they were just regular plant seeds, she hadn’t had much time to think about it. An older chantry sister had gleefully come running back to the infirmary, arms full with half a dozen of a flowering plant from the garden that she’d mistaken for elfroot.

Finley wasn’t sure how, but she managed to convince the woman to plant them a little ways from the infirmary, out of the way, so that they could ‘use’ them later. While she wasn’t complete sure, she was fairly certain that the plants were akin to ones she used in itching powders, and so she cast a quiet heal on the sister as she scratched at her forearm and then asked her to go find Mother Giselle and see if the woman didn’t have something for the sister to do.

Truly, it was all so odd.

It was almost as though they’d _forgotten_ she was a mage, somehow. Like seeing her wandering quietly with the commander had somehow made her more… _human_.

She didn’t understand it, but the resulting attention was far more taxing than just expending her magic on the ample injuries of those still being brought up to the keep—while the castle was big, it was apparently not big enough to house their entire forces, and a base camp was already sprouting up near the river. The injured were still brought to the keep, and some of them returned down to the river once they were better. While she was dealing less and less with frostbite, there were a good number of people getting dragged over with newer injuries sustained from their attempts to clean up Skyhold or set up camp below.

It seemed like their work would never end.

Especially when Finley could barely set foot in the infirmary without half a dozen people following her.

She’d looked toward Commander Rutherford’s post to see if he might save her when it had first started, but he’d been entrenched in his own following, though his were more uniformly clad than hers. She’d decided going over to him would be a bad idea, as their mobs might somehow merge into something truly horrifying.

Cole was the one to come to her aid, of all people. Or not…or…she wasn’t sure that spirits were people in the same sense that most used the word, but he certainly seemed like one. And she was quite certain that even if she didn’t know what he _was_ , he wasn’t a demon.

His help actually helped.

As another sister marched up to Finley, suddenly Cole intercepted her, taking her hand and gently leading her to the side, talking about a wishing well and pennies not wasted. When the sister nodded, a little stunned, Cole looked back at Finley and motioned with his head toward the nearest stairs. “You should check on the ramparts for a messenger who’s lost. He could use a Herald’s help.”

She’d hoped against hope that maybe that had been some sort of code for a message for her, from home.

Instead, when she found the messenger, he really was just a lost soul who’d dropped a report in a rather hard to reach place. The wind had caught it around a rather hard to reach flag stand on the outer part of the ramparts. Finley nearly gave him a heart attack—as he’d said multiple times—when she dangled herself over the wall to reach the paper with her toes. She offered to take the message to Josephine in his place so that he could calm down.

Even with a task, as soon as people saw her, they flocked to her, walking along with her, stopping her occasionally, and she felt like she was drowning in words and pleasantries.

It was confusing.

Varric was her next savior, calling off the mob as he stressed that Josephine wanted to see Finley. It was a fortunate thing that he could read situations so well…or so she thought until she saw the scout from earlier sitting near the fire the dwarf had taken up residency at. Apparently her offer to take the message wasn’t as efficient as she’d thought.

While none of those seeking her attention followed Finley to speak with Josephine, again she found another cluster of people around their dear ambassador, bringing reports of noble support and promises of aid. She was content to wait her turn and give herself a rest.

Even as Finley considered that almost everything she’d heard was good news at least, one of them realized who was standing beside her, and the elf startled as though she were seeing a ghost. Finley’s apologies and the elf’s insistence that she needn’t do so distracted everyone else in the room, though it wasn’t until Josephine had come over and asked if everything was alright that they realized they were the center of attention.

“I startled this poor woman,” Finley started, though the elf shook her head frantically.

“No, no, no. I was just…I haven’t slept much and...no, I mean, that is to say I wasn’t paying attention and…it could have been anyone beside me. It wasn’t because it was you, it was…”

As she floundered, Josephine politely took both of their reports and suggested that the elven lass could sit beside the fire and rest for a while if she’d like, as she did seem tired.

She sheepishly accepted the offer. While Josephine offered it to Finley, she just motioned over her shoulder.

“I should get back to the infirmary.”

She made it four steps out of the main hall when Reinald intercepted her with a cheerful grin. He was a happy man, all in all, and Finley could see why he’d been sent to represent the Rebel mages. It was hard to feel ill at ease with such an amiable laugh.

Pity he hadn’t ended up the Herald of Andraste.

She scolded herself at the thought as she followed after him. Especially considering that would mean she’d be dead…and he’d be the one having the nightmares about burnt corpses.

They hadn’t been as bad since the blizzard really, but most nights she was so exhausted that she just hadn’t had time to dream at all. It was surprisingly nice. Especially considering what and who had been in her dreams before the blizzard.

But Reinald, he took Finley to the side, and at first she wanted to wish blessings upon him for finding a way to slip away from the rest of the world.

That was, until she saw the other eleven mages who had come with him to help sustain the frost wards. Dorian was with them, as well, and he grinned at her as they entered into the old, falling apart tower that they’d gathered in. “Oh good, we were beginning to think you wouldn’t be able to get her away from the templars.”

A few of the other mages looked like they weren’t quite sure what to think of Dorian, even after all this time. She wanted to defend him from words that hadn’t been spoken, but was not allowed the time.

“I caught her free of them,” Reinald laughed, triumphant, interrupting her building indignation.

Even as Finley took a step away from him to eye him suspiciously, Dorian sauntered over and slung an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to the other mages. “Come then, don’t dawdle. None of us will bite.”

Finley rolled her eyes toward him and then scanned the crowd again to note that Solas, Dalish, and Vivienne were all missing from their gathering. Reinald hurried to her free side. “With the castle in the condition that it’s in, we’re having a bit of a debate about whether or not the rest of our people should come here. On the one hand, it’s more people to help piece things back together.”

“On the other,” another of the mages said, a shrewd looking woman with a crooked nose, her voice clipped, “it’s more mouths to feed and more strain on the people already here.”

“More people to clutter up the place,” another mage mumbled. He was sitting a little way away from everyone, and idly tossing a small ball of lightning from one hand to the other.

Narrowing her eyes, Finley looked back to Reinald. “You wish for my opinion?”

“It would be nice.”

“I…” She tried to think of how to answer. She struggled with it for a moment, starting a few times to tell them to stay where they were or to come to Skyhold now, as her mind kept flipping like a dying fish. Finally, she just shook her head. “I have a mark on my hand that makes the templars think twice about trying to hurt me. Of everyone here, I am easily the safest, so I don’t know that it would be wise to have me deciding what is alright for you to do. The vast majority of my experience with templars is just to outrun them. It hardly applies in this case for me or for you. My advice for dealing with people who don’t have magic is to avoid _them_ which, again, does not work in this scenario.” She tugged on one of her sleeves, frowning when her finger popped through a fresh hole.

As she wriggled it free, a faint laugh caught her attention, namely because no one present was laughing.

Even as her mind went to demons, one of the mages held out a small glimmering stone. An older, yet kind voice followed the laughter from within the stone, a voice tinged with an Orlesian accent. “We appreciate your honesty.”

Finley eyed the stone, slipping out from under Dorian’s arm and stepping closer to inspect it. The spell was old, far older than anything she’d seen before, except for maybe whispers of broken spells in old ruins…or the temperature spell in this valley. Whether it was from the same source was lost to her, but it was old magic.

When the mage holding the trinket offered it to her, she carefully took it from his hand. “I have never been one to send another mage to a templar’s blade,” Finley murmured.

Just as she wondered if she had spoken too softly, the stone sent a tingle through her, its magic swirling. There was another faint laugh and then, “If I may introduce myself before we go any further, I am Grand Enchanter Fiona, leader of the Rebel mages. I apologize for not speaking with you earlier, but we would rather the templars not know we still have some of the communication stones from the towers. They tried to destroy or capture most of them, but…” She trailed off for a moment. “That is not important. For now, please know that I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Herald Finley. I would have rather this been done in person, but you can see our dilemma.”

“Yes,” Finley murmured before adding, “And just Finley is fine. Preferred, really.”

That conversation wound on for well over an hour as they’d discussed the pros and cons of the mages coming to Skyhold, as well as other less impending matters. Dorian’s friend, Felix, got ahold of the stone when it was decided that the mages would be coming now rather than later. He expressed a gladness to meet Finley, even if it was just via an enchanted stone, and then explained that he was going to go back to Tevinter to bring the Venatori to the attention of the magisterium. Surely, they would not openly support such a radical faction from their country.

Dorian seemed disappointed when Felix said he wouldn’t be coming to Skyhold, but he didn’t harp on the subject. Once the meeting was finally over, Finley dismissed herself to wander back to the infirmary. She’d partially hoped someone would go with her so that she might look busy enough to not be bothered, but the other mages had their hands tied with their own tasks about the castle.

And it was after dark by the time she’d left them, too. Most of the castle was asleep, and Finley couldn’t figure out for the life of her where her day had gone.

Even as she started to consider finding some nice, quiet nook to curl up in for the night—now that they were in the castle and free of tents, she liked to switch up where she slept, so that no one could surprise her while she let herself rest—a pair of hands wrapped around her head, covering her eyes.

“Guess who!”

It was with great effort and the fortunate timing of that familiar voice that Finley found herself able to keep from whirling around and kicking at Dalish.

After sliding out from her fellow apostate’s grip, she turned to see that both Dalish and Krem were behind her, both looking immensely tired, and yet still ready to cause some mischief.

“Boss’s got a keg over at the back of the inn,” Krem offered, pointing over his shoulder. “Figured if anyone could use a drink, it would be you.”

Considering her day had seemed to go on forever, part of her wanted to reject the offer just so she could get some sleep. However, a larger part of her wondered if she wouldn’t simply be caught by more people looking for her, even in the dead of night.

If that was the case, she might as well just go with people she enjoyed to be around, people who didn’t put her up on a pedestal.

Just as Finley opened her mouth to accept the offer, a soft clink caught her attention. The sound of something hitting something, like stone on stone or, no. Stone on…

Without thinking, she forgot about the offer of a drink and wandered closer to the edge of the upper courtyard so that she could see what was going on.

She hopped the ledge, bypassing the stairs all together, when her fears proved true. “What’s going on?” she asked, despite having a damned good idea.

There were half a dozen worn looking men and women spread out throughout the main courtyard, and they’d started moving the cobblestones away from the tree roots and from the looks of things, they’d just started to dig up said roots.

“Ah, Lady Herald,” one of the nearer women started, though another young man who Finley vaguely recognized from earlier lightly thwacked her on the arm.

“She just likes Finley.”

Well, that was new. It was a little pleasant to have someone else correcting people on the title for a change.

“Herald Finley,” the woman adjusted, looking a little embarrassed. She motioned around the courtyard. “I’m sure you’re aware, with all the healing you do, but this courtyard is an accident waiting to happen.”

“More like accident after accident,” Dalish offered from where she still stood up on the ledge of the higher courtyard. Krem whistled his agreement.

It was true enough. Just this morning, Finley had treated four sprained ankles from people tripping over the cobblestones on their tasks to and fro the castle.

“And so you’re tearing up the tree roots.”

“We,” the woman caught the disapproval in Finley’s tone and hesitated, glancing to the others as though for support before finally shrugging when no one offered to take up the discussion in her stead. “Yes. We’re going to even out the courtyard.”

Didn’t they know what destroying so many roots could do to a tree? Damage to the tree itself aside, if it became lopsided enough in its base, it would topple over, and Finley didn’t doubt the trees had roots under the castle that would tear up floors and walls.

Before she could really think about the implications or ramifications of what she was saying, Finley had already waved a hand, dismissing them. “I will handle the courtyard.”

The workers didn’t move, though gazes did snap toward one another, confusion and worry plainly visible. Crossing her arms, Finley tried to stand up a little straighter. How was it that Commander Rutherford always inspired confidence? “I’ll see to it that the tree roots won’t be a problem, so you can go get some sleep.”

One of the workers further back leaned toward another, whispering, “Can she do that?”

A nearer one caught what he’d said—and that Finley had heard—and bowed her head respectfully. “We were given orders by Commander Rutherford.”

Speak of.

She was too tired, however, for that to give her pause. “And I’m overriding his orders. I will handle this. You may go.”

There was a silence followed by yet another, “Can she do that?”


	47. In the Meantime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading!

The wind had picked up in the last half hour, and while Vivienne didn’t mind the chill it sent through her—being a frost mage, she hardly noticed it, honestly—it was getting a mite bit tedious to have to keep her letters from blowing away. As the sun had dipped lower in the sky, she’d moved from her inner balcony to the outer one in order to make the most of the day’s light, and had then gotten so wrapped up in her work that she’d conjured a small orb of frost to illuminate her papers as she continued.

Had it not been for the wind, she likely would have worked until the small hours of the morning before realizing just how late it was.

Despite the questionable accommodations that Skyhold currently provided, she had to admit that she was rather fond of this balcony.

Truth be told, she had simply been looking for a place with good lighting—there were others who needed their scarce candles far more than she, and while she could conjure light with her magic, she hadn’t wanted to need to depend solely upon that to do her work. No need to waste her energy, should it be needed for more immediate problems in the near future. That was why she’d settled up here; the large windows provided plenty of natural light—or they did now that she’d had them cleaned.

However, more than that, this balcony, up on the second floor of the main hall, gave her a lovely view both inside and out, and she was already considering how she might decorate it.

Of course, she would need to speak with Josephine to make it official, but she had a feeling no one else would wish to claim this place. Not when she’d already settled in so well.

Vivienne had been writing a few letters to associates back home who might be able to provide decent assistance in making the keep look more put together. It was impressive in its own right, until one took the time to really look at all the crumbling walls and rotting old furniture.

They were fixing things up at a good pace, but for now most of the Inquisition was focusing strictly on practicality, leaving presentation to be tended to at a later time, not realizing that with Orlesian nobles en route, the latter was just as much a part of the former as having stocked kitchens or functioning sleeping quarters.

If they _looked_ the ragtag organization, they would _be_ the ragtag organization.

While Josephine might want to work her magic, her hands were tied with securing necessities first. Vivienne’s were not, and she fully intended to use her sway to assist.

After all, that was why she was here, was it not?

And so she had spent the last few days writing, when she wasn’t using magic to help clear out rooms, of course. Messy business that, but it wouldn’t do to leave all the heavy lifting to the templars. Wouldn’t want them to feel used.

Especially considering what some of them were choosing to do in their leisure.

While she hadn’t a problem with the majority of the templars here—honestly, she found the five who followed Herald Finley about like lost puppies to be somewhat endearing, and useful—she did take issue with the discontented ones who were starting to seek out others with like minds.

Potential problem that they could be, she was already taking steps to handle them. As with most inscrutable individuals, it simply took a bit of time and patience.

Vivienne had just gotten up to gather her things and head off to the small room she was currently sleeping in when she noticed movement in the courtyard. Her mind first went to the unwanted templars making their move—they weren’t the brightest, and she had a feeling that when they did make their move, it would be an obvious one. However, rather than tedious fools gathering to make their demands, she was pleasantly surprised.

There were workers in the courtyard, no doubt there to make it walkable.

Even as she’d quietly commended whoever had thought to deal with those bothersome cobblestones, Herald Finley wandered onto the scene, interrupting the work below.

Words were exchanged—she was too high up to hear what they said to one another—and after a moment, the workers reluctantly retreated. As Vivienne leaned against the railing on her balcony, Herald Finley spoke quietly to…

She couldn’t make them out in this light. Their dear Herald stood out somewhat with that bright hair and the way she walked—like she was always about to start into a sprint—and how she held herself as though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to look bigger or smaller.

The last few days she’d seemed to be going for bigger, which was a pleasant change. One never wanted to follow a leader who shrunk away from everything.

The trio below spoke quietly and then, much to Vivienne’s surprise, Herald Finley had knelt down and started channeling her magic into the ground. The first few attempts were short bursts, and Vivienne could follow the feel of the magic to look at the results.

Herald Finley was trying to manipulate the roots so that they would go deeper into the ground. Why she would feel the need to do so when there had already been people tasked with the project—oh, but damaging the roots would cause harm to the trees, wouldn’t it? Jokes aside, the Herald truly did have a fondness for nature, something that would no doubt be used to inspire a Witch narrative, should the wrong people be given the opportunity.

Vivienne and Josephine were already handling that potential fallout, however.

More interestingly—to Vivienne, at least—was that Herald Finley was succeeding in her endeavors.

Though the way she stopped and rushed over to see her work indicated that she wasn’t happy with the results.

Yet the roots had gone down in the spaces she’d focused on…

Ah, there was the problem. They were popping up in other areas.

Or just breaking.

It would take considerably more than those short bursts of magic the Herald was so fond of to tend to the courtyard. Vivienne idly wondered if she might be able to assist with the root manipulation. She didn’t have much of an affinity for nature spells, though, so it wasn’t likely she could help make much headway without causing Herald Finley to have to backtrack and explain things to her.

One of the two with Herald Finley knelt beside her, and Vivienne felt a familiar tug of magic. Dalish, the ‘non-mage’.

Even as she took a guess as to who the last of the trio might be, a soft creak of leather caught Vivienne’s attention. She turned her head to see Leliana leaning against the railing beside her, face mostly shadowed in the dim light. When she knew she had the first enchanter’s attention, Leliana flashed her a quick smile, turning toward her.

Vivienne returned the cordiality, perfectly plucked eyebrows quirking up in time with her lips. “Good evening, my dear. I assume you received my message.”

“I did indeed,” Leliana began, watching Herald Finley speak with Dalish and Krem for a moment longer before turning her back to the scene and leaning against her elbows on the rail. “I appreciate that you would bring their movements to my attention, but I do have people watching them.”

Vivienne had suspected thus. After all, it would be unbecoming for a spymaster not to know of the templars planning to make a claim for power within her own organization.

While Vivienne had a great deal of respect for the men and women who would stand against abominations and blood mages, who would protect the masses from rampant magic and mages from fearful masses, she’d learned a long time ago that bad apples did make their way into the batch.

Fortunately, she was good at finding them.

Taking care of them, though? The sort she worked so tirelessly to remove from within her Circles—she’d been pulling strings since she was an apprentice back in Cumberland—would jump on a chance to accuse a mage of blood magic if it would save their skin.

No, it was better for her to find the wretched creatures and point them out for others to remove. Others who could not be accused of trying to cover up their own dastardly dealings, imaginary or not.

“I did not intend to imply you could not do your job, Sister Nightingale,” Vivienne offered, still resting so that she could watch Herald Finley, though the mage had been arguing with Dalish—no doubt about spell tense—for the last few minutes. She drummed her well-manicured nails against the rail—despite it all, she’d managed to keep up her appearance through their travels, something that very few others had even attempted. “It is simply that I heard they plan to make their move soon. To demand a phylactery from the Herald.”

“I had heard their aim was a bit higher,” Sister Nightingale murmured, though her face didn’t betray any concern. Rather, she looked bitterly amused. “They want to put a proper leash on her. Lock her away in one of these towers unless she’s needed and then escort her out to fulfill her Heraldic duties.”

Not bothering to hide her displeasure with the idea and the knowledge that Sister Nightingale was clearly trying to draw negative parallels to the Circles themselves, Vivienne sighed. “That would be most unwise of them, though I should imagine a phylactery is their first step toward just that.”

Toward making Skyhold a prison and reinforcing the parts of the Circles that had caused so many to rebel.  

“If we are willing to give them this, they can ask for more,” Leliana filled in. “And if the Herald refuses so _simple_ a request, then there is reason to suspect her of something foul.”

Vivienne nodded and then tilted her head. Commander Rutherford was coming to the courtyard with one of the workers from earlier in tow. The man looked like he’d been woken up, and Vivienne pitied him. He never got enough sleep as it was.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a pause in his step, his gaze focusing on Herald Finley. She’d already stood back up from where she’d been sitting rather unceremoniously in the middle of the mostly empty courtyard with the others.

As he walked to her, tripping once on one of the skewed stones, Vivienne looked back at Leliana, half surprised the woman was still there. She’d turned to watch the going ons in the courtyard as well with an expression that would have been impossible to read in good lighting. However, the shadows mimicked a mask and made the little features that _were_ visible all the more telling.

Sister Nightingale was not fond of whatever it was that was brewing between Herald and Commander. Perhaps she felt the commander would be able to sway Herald Finley toward his own preferences in regards to important decisions within the Inquisition should something happen between them. There were rumors that some of their decisions had been three-to-two votes, with Herald Finley as the tie breaker, so any influence over her would be critical to the direction their Inquisition went in.

Vivienne had a feeling that—should something actually happen between them—the resulting power imbalance would go the other way, with the Commander bending to the Herald, instead.

Not that she would voice such a thing. Not yet, anyway.

“Apostates do not generally react well to requests for phylacteries,” Vivienne pointed out, knowing full well that Sister Nightingale would be aware of this. Rather, she had a point to drive home. “I think we would lose much of her trust if they’re able to corner her and demand one. Even if they are asking without support from anyone in power.”

“I am watching them,” Leliana repeated.

“Might I offer a suggestion?” Vivienne asked, finally turning away from the scene in the courtyard. There wasn’t much to see with the commander there. Herald Finley was quite self-conscious when it came to who she cast in front of.

When Vivienne was sure she had Leliana’s attention, she motioned down toward the courtyard. “It is no secret that there is some mystery as to where exactly our dear Herald comes from. Why not send those suspicious of her to gather information? I’m sure they would be willing.”

Leliana tilted her head, appraising Vivienne carefully. “And then I suppose it will just be an unfortunate turn of events that something horrid befalls them.”

“On the contrary, my dear,” Vivienne settled back against the railing again, a comfortable smile on her lips. “Not all minds can be swayed, but we can make sure they sway no others. By the time they get back, we’ll have made certain there’s no one who would listen to their demands. Without support, they’ll either fall in line or leave.”

“Or attempt to take out what they consider a problem directly,” Leliana added.

“Forgive me, Sister Nightingale, but I hardly think they would be able to get past you, and even if they did…” She let her gaze wander down to the courtyard. Herald Finley was talking rather animatedly with her hands as she motioned to the courtyard and around as Commander Rutherford listened intently, arms crossed and head bent down. “I doubt you’re the only thing standing between her and a poor end.”

As she spoke, Herald Finley clasped Commander Rutherford’s hand and dragged him back to the stairs. The worker followed them as Dalish and Krem went to different entry points in the courtyard, taking what looked like guard stances there. Herald Finley patted the commander’s arm, speaking quickly. Just when she started back into the courtyard, she flitted back toward him, like a nervous little bird.

Then, she went back into the courtyard and sat at the base of the nearest tree. Her fingers were splayed against the ground before Vivienne realized what she was going to do.

Dark eyes widening slightly, Vivienne watched as magic seeped out of her fingertips and into the tree roots, soaking through them and extending to the lengths. The roots shuddered and began to descend into the earth.

The commander seemed entranced by the magic, much as Vivienne was when it first started, but a startled cry caught both of their attention. Vivienne turned to watch the commander cut off two templars coming to see what was going on. Though the men seemed wary of backing down—their swords were already drawn—Commander Rutherford directed them back the way they’d come.

The magic flickered out of existence and started up again—Herald Finley had moved to a different tree—and Commander Rutherford stood his ground. Finally, the templars stood down and retreated.  

By the time he and Vivienne returned their attention to Herald Finley, she was already hopping back to her feet from the last of the old trees there, though her balance seemed a little off. She’d likely been tired before this casting, and reworking a root system was bound to take one’s energy.  

Commander Rutherford went to help her, though it was Dalish who reached her first, dragging one of Herald Finley’s arms over her shoulders and starting to lead her off toward the tavern. Commander Rutherford looked like he very much wanted to follow, but instead, after a brief conversation, he headed off the way he’d originally come, stopping once to glance over his shoulder. Then, he was talking to that worker again, and they were gone.

“I was wondering when we might see her other magic,” Leliana offered offhandedly, as though she were commenting on the weather.

With a faint smile, Vivienne sauntered in from the balcony and gathered her things quickly. “I’m sure our dear Herald has far more than a few root tricks up her sleeves.”

“As am I,” Sister Nightingale agreed. “But you must admit it is fun to see.”

While Vivienne simply smiled in response, she couldn’t help but consider that it would be _more_ fun to learn.

“Now then,” Sister Nightingale began, pausing a breath before giving Vivienne her full attention again, “Let us speak of these templars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	48. Correspondence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading this chapter for me!

Lazy midday sunbeams filtered through tree branches to warm Finley’s skin. As she turned into the warmth, basking in the serenity of it, her mind took its time coming together. The last thing she remembered was inspecting a few trees to see how she might be able to shift them to make room for plants below, without the old trees stealing all the sunlight.

Something they clearly weren’t doing, as it were.

Stretching her shoulders and then her arms over her head, she frowned when her hand caught on some fabric that had been draped over her. Brow pinched, she opened one eye, looking down in puzzlement. She never slept with a blanket.

The sight of that familiar gold and maroon surcoat brought her pleasant reality crumbling apart.

For just a moment, she’d thought…thought that she’d been home, tucked safely away in her Wilds, far from the searching eyes of templars.

‘Twas a foolish notion, truly.

The echoes of a dream and nothing more.

Of course she was in Skyhold, with its already increasing bustling throngs who complained about every twig they laid eyes on, calling it uncivilized and poorly kept.

They couldn’t appreciate so much as a leaf.

Skyhold, big and sprawling as it was, seemed to be getting smaller every day. Passages were being cleared—slowly for Commander Rutherford and the others’ liking, though it was too fast for Finley—and with each day, wondrous hiding places were being brought to light and ruined.

Finley had always been fond of old ruins because of the ease with which one could get lost inside, and yet Skyhold was not to stay thus. Solas had brought them here to build the Inquisition, and it wouldn’t do to operate out of an old, run down castle.

She would have thought simply being able to say they _had_ a castle would have left their enemies and allies alike awed, but apparently the condition mattered.

Sitting up slowly, Finley ran her hand over the surcoat, stopping to let her fingers tangle in the fur at its neckline. What sort of beast did it belong to? When no animals sprung to mind, she wondered if she might simply ask Commander Rutherford about it. After all, surely he knew what he wore.

She drew her legs to herself as she inspected the fabric. It had a few little tears in it, and one of the seams looked strained. Nothing that would be noticeable from a distance—or even up close, really. The commander’s presence would outshine any damage to his clothes. 

Part of her wanted to curl back up underneath it and just sleep. This _was_ the first time she’d drifted off in the last three days.

During the day, she tried to be in the infirmary, though she was constantly finding herself sought after by others that meant she spent far less time there than she would have liked.

Though…truthfully, the only reason she’d spent so much time there originally was because she wanted to make sure to cement the idea that she was useful in others’ minds.

And it was clear now that they found her useful, though she worried that these extended responsibilities might lead to easier ways to disappoint people, which would put her in a tight spot.

Though…there seemed to be enough people on her side that it would be okay if she messed up every now and then.

Not that she would let herself get careless. Rather, she’d hope they would come through for her on unintentional mishaps, rather than lazy ones.

During the day, she barely had time to breathe. At night, she spent whatever energy she had left working with Skyhold’s trees.

The first night had been...trying. Even as she’d tried to figure out how to go about channeling her magic so that the roots wouldn’t break apart, Commander Rutherford had shown up. She’d half expected him to tell her to let the workers do their jobs, but instead he had listened to her. And he’d been patient, as it had been hard for her to gather her thoughts properly when a whole swarm of butterflies had gotten caught in her stomach somehow.

Really, he was a good listener. She wasn’t sure why she so expected him to turn on her…well, except that that was what everyone did eventually. She was getting so comfortable around him, though, that sometimes she forgot. Sometimes she forgot that she’d been stabbed in the back—literally and metaphorically—every time she’d been fool enough to let herself get too comfortable around people.

Regardless of what was undoubtedly going to happen _eventually_ , he hadn’t turned on her yet. In fact, he’d supported her idea to save the tree roots, offering that it would be _better_ to save them, if possible, as they might cause structural damage to the castle if removed improperly. He’d been embarrassed that he hadn’t considered that himself.

By the second night, other mages had heard of what she was doing, and she’d had help with the remaining parts of the main courtyard, the upper courtyard and around the stables. Further, a mage with an earthen affinity had helped to level the cobblestones so that they didn’t wobble without the support of the tree roots that had ousted them from their original places.

For the most part, after three days, the courtyards were looking rather good. There were still a few problem areas that would need to be dealt with, but…she would get to them tonight.

After all, she could operate on little sleep.

Or, she assumed she could. In reality, healing so many others and dealing with so many people and working with so much at night was far more taxing than her usual activities.

Last night, they’d finished with the main traveled areas in the upper courtyard and had been quite pleased with themselves. As she let her gaze sweep the area, inspecting it for any forgotten roots that might be cursed in the morning, she’d felt that distinctly muted, yet still prickly gaze of a templar on her.

Glancing to the stairs, she’d found Commander Rutherford walking down. His steps were measured, tired. When she looked up at him, he nodded to her, stopping when he reached the bottom of the stairs. His hair was freshly washed and combed back—she already missed his rogue curls—and he’d shaved off the majority of his short beard, leaving only a small dusting of stubble in its wake. Most of his armor had been left wherever it was that he slept, but he wore his surcoat and vest over his plainer clothes, perhaps so people could still easily spot him in the bustle that would be starting in another hour or so. She shouldn’t have stayed up so late.

He’d scratched at the back of his neck and nodded toward her. “It…looks nice.”

She had to laugh at that. “You don’t need to coddle me. I’m well aware there’s more work needed.”

He had shifted his weight a bit, gaze on the skewed cobblestones between them. “You know you’ve probably saved us a week’s worth of work, if not more.”

She hadn’t looked at it that way, but it was true enough, so she nodded. With a yawn that caught both of them by surprise, she’d shrugged, unsure what else to say. How many people knew what she was doing? While it wasn’t exactly a secret, she hadn’t felt any templars watching her, which seemed notably odd. But then, she _had_ been rather preoccupied, and she was out in the open, so it wasn’t impossible that she’d just not noticed them.

That thought was a little horrifying, though Commander Rutherford had drawn her out of that dismal line of thinking before she could panic about her carelessness.

He’d hesitated a moment, before finally motioning over his shoulder, up the way he’d come. “I know you’re working as quickly as you can, and I don’t wish to seem like I’m taking that for granted, but I wanted to ask if you were planning on doing this in the gardens as well.”

Even as Finley was nodding again, she had paused—in her tired state, she’d been ready to agree to whatever he was asking without fulling paying attention to it. Eyes narrowed, she’d trotted over to Commander Rutherford, stopping when she was in front of him. “The garden won’t need this sort of treatment. It’s a garden.”

With a blink, her commander had lowered his arm. “That’s… It will need some clearing to make room for planting herbs we could use and….”

“For the love of—” Finley had cut herself off and took in a deep breath. “Can we not find somewhere else to grow our herbs?”

“Aside from the place designed specifically for it?”

Finley had tapped her fingers against her hips, considering it. The sun would be up in an hour at most, so even if she did move on to one of the few places left in the courtyards, she likely wouldn’t get much done before having to worry about tripping people who were crossing the area. The garden, though…she hadn’t even given it much of a glance since her first exploration. Sera had gotten caught in a bramble bush, and she and Solas had used magic to untangle her, which had left the rogue in a somewhat fickle mood.

Krem had been amused by the whole of it, as had Dorian and Varric—the six of them, along with that spirit, Cole, had come to Skyhold ahead of the main bulk of the group, to explore and claim the keep or the Inquisition, once and for all.

“You know…you could probably recruit some of the other mages to help you.” He’d noted the few who were wandering off to sleep the morning away and corrected himself. “Or rather, to do the work in your stead. You’re already handling so much…”

When Finley had looked back at him, eyes slightly narrowed, he’d turned as though to go back up the steps, pausing to motion for her to come with him. “This is to be their home as well, so I’m sure they enjoy helping shape it.”  

Yawning, Finley had fallen into step beside him, wandering up the stairs and into the shoddy main hall, past a few poor souls who were either up too early or—like her—just hadn’t slept yet. “Have you ever seen more than one mage try to shape a garden?”

He’d hesitated before finally shaking his head. “I can’t say that I have.”

“It is a nightmare proper,” Finley had muttered, mind wandering back to the few instances she’d seen more than one person try to ‘fix’ a damaged area. “One person inevitably decides their vision of it is better and then makes everyone else’s lives miserable until they give up on their own dreams.”

Donovan had come to mind there. The grumbly old elf was always getting mad when others didn’t want to do things his way.

“Well, not to encourage falling back on this too often, but you are the Herald of Andraste. I’m fairly certain your vision takes priority.”

Her gaze had flashed toward him to see that his lips were quirked up on the right, tugging on that scar of his.

“You think?” She hadn’t been able to help but grin back at him at that. Perhaps being Herald wasn’t all bad, though she’d doubted the others back home would care that she’d been given some fancy title.

But then, they weren’t here, were they? Anyone she did work with would know her as Herald Finley, and that meant they might be more likely to follow Commander Rutherford’s train of thought.

It was tempting…

“Perhaps I will speak with Solas,” she’d finally said, shrugging as they passed through the open doorway into the garden.

It was a wild place. Overgrown and beautiful, twists of all kinds of plants that Finley could use in alchemy grew freely, taking over walls and pillars alike, with little regard to where their roots cracked the old stones.

Solas had fallen into a melancholy ever since their siting of the magnificent keep, and his dismal attitude seemed most pronounced when they’d wandered the garden. It was as though he could see what had once been here. Perhaps he’d seen the gardens as they’d been when he was wandering the Fade.

As a bramble had almost caught on Finley’s boot, she’d curled her fingers toward her palm, making the plant shift a little and allowing her to easily move past it without either of them taking damage.

Commander Rutherford had let out a soft laugh, and Finley had stilled. She’d all but forgotten he was with her. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she’d stopped in her tracks, wondering if wandering with him was a good idea. He had such a disarming presence; what if she let slip something important? That sort of betrayal would eat at her, surely.

He’d seemed oblivious to her thoughts, walking a few more paces ahead of her before turning. “It must feel a little bit like home here. For you, I mean.”

“It…” Finley had stepped carefully over to one of the larger trees that punctuated the area. Looking up through the branches, she had almost been able to feel the cold winds from home sweeping around her, tugging on her hair and welcoming her. “It does.”

“If we cut a few branches, we could probably get enough light down to the ground that we wouldn’t need to remove any of the trees themselves,” Commander Rutherford had offered, reaching up a hand and tugging on a branch as though he was testing its strength.

“They’ll want to clear some of the smaller plants, likely,” Finley had murmured. She could already see what it would look like, ‘cleaned up’, smaller shrubs trimmed back with some flowery plants arranged near them, the lower limbs of the trees lopped off so that no one would bang their heads. It would be so…tamed.

With a sigh, she’d slumped down against the tree, letting herself fall all the way to the ground so that she was sitting at its base. When Commander Rutherford looked down at her, startled, she’d sleepily patted the ground beside her.

He had hesitated a moment before walking over and carefully sitting on one of the larger roots that came up almost half a foot from the ground before disappearing down. His sword was at his hip, and he’d paused to adjust it so that it wasn’t sticking into his waist before settling in.

Without thinking, she had reached out and traced a finger down the sheath, idly examining the metalwork that had gone into its design. “You always have this with you.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“You think we’ll be attacked here?”

“I think I’d rather be prepared and have nothing happen, than have something go wrong and not be able to fight,” Commander Rutherford had offered quietly. He let his gaze wander the garden. There hadn’t been much to see in the darkness, but they could still make out vague shapes…and it was getting a little lighter. Slowly.

“It’s good to be prepared.”

Quiet had settled over them as they sat there, watching the world slowly blossom into shades of green and brown, with the occasional flower intermingled in the wild leaves. For the first time in a long time, Finley had felt oddly at peace, like perhaps this was where she was meant to be.

“I wanted you to know,” he’d begun, drawing her from her thoughts. His hands had been clasped in front of him as he glared toward their feet, shoulders stiff. “I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.”

With a slow nod, she’d rubbed at her eyes, sitting up a little straighter. “It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

His smile had been pained as he turned away from her. “Do you have a plan for this place? If you’d like, I can tell the sisters who wanted to get started out here to wait for your say so. With all the other things that need tending to, we could easily put the garden on hold for a while.”

…

What had she told him after that?

Rubbing her eyes, Finley frowned. She could remember talking a little with him about which trees would likely need some pruning and which plants would need to be separated for a proper garden, and then…

She must have fallen asleep.

Finley ran her fingers idly through the fur on the surcoat.

Even as she noted that it still smelled faintly of him, a loud crash interrupted her thoughts, and her head snapped up. She crouched low to the ground, before darting around behind the tree and climbing up into its branches. As she scanned the garden, waiting for whatever had made the noise was to show itself—half-awake as she was, she half expected a wyvern to come crashing through the underbrush—Krem came stumbling out of a few low shrubs, swearing as he tried to rid himself of dozens of little twigs and brambles. “Dammit! Did you have to shove me into thorns?”

“I didn’t realize they were in there,” Bull’s voice offered.

When both familiar faces were in view, Finley dropped back down from where she’d hidden, trotting around an old oak until she was behind the mercenary duo, still shoving one another. She frowned as she inspected the damage they’d done to the underbrush and then leaned against the tree, Commander Rutherford’s surcoat folded over her crossed arms. “I do hope you’re here for a reason.”

Krem jumped slightly as they both turned to her, though he quickly smiled and shoved Bull. “Chief’s got a present for you.”

“Oh?” Finley arched her brow. She pushed away from her tree and trotted over to them, examining them with more care.

Bull had one of his large hands curled shut, not enough to be a fist, but enough to keep something trapped within it. She stiffened when she realized she could hear frantic, muted wing beats.

That sound brought back memories that had finally been fading since the blizzard had stirred them up.

As she bristled slightly, he turned his hand so that it was palm up and opened it. Almost instantly, a little bird flitted out of his reach, circling above them twice before shooting back down to Finley. She was relieved the second she saw it, for a multitude of reasons.

It wasn’t a real bird.

As she held her hand out, its form fell apart, leaves scattering in the wind, leaving only a small note left to drift down. Finally, someone from home had reached out.

She caught the note, gaze skimming the page quickly.

However, she’d barely gotten through half of it before she found herself folding the paper down as Bull sidled up beside her to read over her shoulder.

He rolled his eye and motioned to the letter. “Come on. I brought it to you.”

“It would have come to me without your assistance.”

“The templars would have caught it without my assistance,” Bull corrected, a grin in place as Finley frowned. “Well, my people’s assistance, but they wouldn’t be here without me.”

That was, unfortunately, likely true. She eyed him and then his second in command. Krem had come up on the same side as Bull, though he stood back a few respectful paces. His expression, however, was one of anticipation.

“Krem,” Finley addressed him, though she kept her gaze on Bull to make sure he wouldn’t offer any hints. “Do you know how close the templars were to finding this?”

“We actually heard about it _from_ them,” Krem explained. Finley’s gaze snapped to him. He motioned toward the little paper in her hands. “They said there was some spell a foot and were trying to track it down. I guess they were worried Corypheus was trying to spy on us with magic or…? Only one or two of them actually felt it, though. The rest just thought their fellows in arms were a bit mad from all the walking. One called them lyrium-addled, whatever that means. Dalish was the one who saw your bird, and Skinner caught it before they could pinpoint its location. Dalish made…not quite sure what it was. Something for the templars to find so they wouldn’t keep looking.”

Bull straightened his shoulders back, looking down at Finley with faux hurt. “You couldn’t ask me about it?”

“I’m quite sure you’d be more than willing to trump up whatever happened for a peek into my world.”

“You think Krem won’t?” Bull laughed, looping an arm around Krem’s shoulders and dragging him closer. Even as Krem shoved him off, Bull shook his head. “He still owes me for ditching to play explorer with you.”

Finley gave the duo a once over. When she and the others had gone to explore Skyhold ahead of the main group, Krem had just reported in from the rear of their procession and she and Sera had sort of kidnapped him. “So I should cast a truth spell and ask you again?”

“Every word I told you was true, Stardust. I swear.” Krem laughed, nudging Bull with his elbow. “Otherwise, I’d have said Chief here fought off an army of templars to save your message.”

“I should like to see that.” She crossed her arms, paper still folded down so that they couldn’t catch a glimpse of what was written. After considering it for a moment, she couldn’t help but smile. “Would you settle for a summary and road trip?”

“Hmmm…” Bull crossed his arms, head bent forward. “You drive a hard bargain, boss.” He reached up to scratch at his chin for a few minutes before finally narrowing his eye. “Do I get to meet who wrote that?”

“If they want you to meet them.”

“How will I know if they want to meet?”

“They’ll actually show up.” Finley uncrossed her arms, glancing back down at the note and reading what was left. With a frown, she folded the paper more firmly and tucked it into her shirt. Just having that letter in her possession had somehow lightened the weight that had been amassing on her shoulders these last few months. “But I won’t break their confidence without their permission.”

Letting out a low, guttural groan, Bull considered the offer and finally shrugged, letting his large arms drop to his sides. “Fine. But Krem doesn’t get to come.”

“That’s not fair!” his second in commander protested, thwacking at his muscles.

“You’ll be needed here with the Chargers, anyway.” Bull nodded off in the general direction where the others were working. “You know how they get when there’s no one to keep an eye on them.”

Even as Krem mumbled that it was true enough, Finley rocked back from her heels to her toes. “So then. We’ve deal?”

“We do. What’s the gist of it?”

“You’ll get that on the road,” Finley turned on her heels and started toward the garden’s exit. She had plans to make and a surcoat to return. As she reached the doorway back into the main hall, she paused when she heard Bull catch Krem and drag him back a few paces.

“Do they really have truth spells?”

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she headed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for reading <3


	49. A Witch's Loyalties

“So…wait. All this shite—demons, arrows, magic here and all over, you telling the templars to frig off—and you weren’t even the leader? They’re just now gonna give you a new fancy title, and you…what exactly?” Sera frowned as she walked along the top of an old fence that ran alongside the road they were traveling down. “This don’t seem like the sort of thing that preludes all that piss.”

“I believe you mean pageantry,” Solas corrected from where he strode on Finley’s other side.

“I said what I meant,” Sera snapped back. She walked along in silence for a moment before doing a cartwheel on top of the fence, narrowly catching herself before she could fall off. “They gonna give you a crown or something when we get back?”

“Doubtful,” Finley replied, eyes glued ahead.

“Good. Never seen anyone get one of those and keep their head.” She paused before adding. “Even if it stays on, it ain’t level no more. Prigs get all caught up in the shine. Can’t see past it.”

Bull had taken lead of their group, with Warden Blackwall keeping pace beside him. However, at Sera’s musings, he dropped back a few paces, appraising Finley carefully. “You know, if you needed to stay in Skyhold for a few days, we could have gotten a head start, and you could have caught up with one of the horses.” He rethought his suggestion. “Or we could have all taken horses.”

“Doubt they got one big enough for you.” Sera hopped over a gap in the fence. The part she landed on was rotted, and she had to hop to the side when it gave out beneath her feet. The air had been getting progressively more humid as they went, and even though the clouds overhead had yet to come pouring down, it felt like they were already walking through a deluge.

Finley had tossed her hair up into a bun early on, yet it a few strands still stuck awkwardly against her neck. “I’m not going to be the inquisitor.” She paused, finally daring a glance to her side. “No new title.”

After a brief pause, Solas was the one to breech the topic, yet again. He had been the one to bring it up earlier, after thinking it over for the last few days, apparently. “Were they not planning on asking you to assume the position?”

“They offered it,” Finley murmured after a moment of quiet debate. When Solas arched his brow, she let her shoulders slump. “They offered, and I accepted.”

She could still see their faces. Leliana had been thrilled, Cassandra had seemed relieved, Josephine had quickly donned a reserved smile, and Commander Rutherford…

He’d looked worried. He’d tried to ask to speak with her to the side, but Leliana had wasted no time, explaining what would go into the role. She would need to train to deal with nobles, she would need to be able to make decisions, she would need to represent the inquisition in the way that it needed to be so that people would think them respectable.

Finley had figured that she might as well be inquisitor, with the way everyone kept coming to her for her opinion and the like…and being that important was likely to make people think twice before deciding she wasn’t important enough to keep around anymore.

And the notion hadn’t seemed so farfetched at the time, though that might have just been because she was tired.

After the day she’d had, dealing with glassmakers who’d wanted her opinions on the windows and then the gardens, with fixing the courtyards and setting up a schedule so that they would be done by the end of the week with a few other mages’ help, it had felt like it was something that she _could_ do.

And earlier, when she had been wandering the keep to track down her companions to see who was available for a little adventure, she had certainly felt more…at ease. She was important enough that people didn’t shy away from her anymore. They didn’t look at her with fear.

It was such a foreign feeling, to belong in a place with so many people.

And she’d felt like she was in control of her life for the first time in a long time. People had even given her space for the most part, as she’d sought out her friends.

Dorian had already been recruited to assist with piecing the library together as it arrived from generous donors, and she’d felt it better to leave Cole at the keep. While she didn’t want him to be caught by the templars—and she had decided he wasn’t a bad sort, whatever he was—she’d decided that perhaps he would work best at the keep, continuing to help tend with the infirmary, especially considering Solas was going to come with her. Seeing as both of them would be gone, she’d gotten Dorian to promise to keep an eye out for the creature—he’d only recently learned of the spirit and was still a little wary of it, but more than willing to assist. Cole had likewise promised to work on morale from the shadows, already whispering about spiders’ webs in healers’ ears.

Solas had been one of the few who hadn’t asked many questions, instead simply nodding and saying he’d be happy to accompany her. Sera had groused about leaving so soon, but then by the end of it she was agreeing that rifts and the like needed to be taken care of. She had actually come to Finley when she’d heard a rumor that the brave Herald was heading out to save the world again.   

And then there’d been Blackwall. Finley almost hadn’t asked him to come, figuring that a grey warden’s time was invaluable and that he’d joined the inquisition to do inquisition things, not Finley things. However, the thought of being able to ask him more about griffons or archdemons had been too great, and she’d finally gone to see if he’d come with her. She’d tried not to jump about giddily after he’d said he would.

Everything had been falling into place. People were gathering supplies, preparing the castle. She’d been approached by a few other workers about various little things—drape details and the like—as she’d pinged her way through the castle, and it had been somewhat fun to listen to their ideas and offer her input.

And it had been mind boggling to see how enthusiastically they’d agree or try to persuade her otherwise.

She’d felt like she was back home, in an odd sort of way, working with the others on spells and the like, where they all had equal footing and their voices mattered.

When she’d become the Herald, she hadn’t had a choice. It had been a name imposed upon her, one that she’d wanted dearly to outrun. She’d been the odd one out, the one people regarded with fear or reverence. Either way, it left them reluctant to approach her. It kept her at a distance, and that kept them from seeing past her, past her eyes, past her magic.

As Inquisitor, though, people had been more willing to come up to her, to treat her like less a deity and more a person.

That was why, when Leliana had tentatively brought up the subject, she’d agreed.

She might not have the most experience with such a thing, and while the thought of actually leading was a bit frightening, it had been pointed out by Varric and Dorian multiple times that she’d already been leading them.

The four of them had seemed somewhat stunned that she would answer so quickly, clearly expecting a heated debate to ensue like when they’d decided who to recruit for assistance. There had been this eerie quiet that settled over the room after her acceptance of the role. Then, even as she’d begun to wonder if perhaps she’d done something wrong, Leliana had been quick to settle into what would need to be done.

And she’d been fine with that.

However, after they’d talked for what had felt like hours, Cassandra had suggested they make the announcement tomorrow—the sooner the better—and Finley had explained she wouldn’t be there. There had been an awkward pause as she fidgeted a little and then explained that she was going to the Fallow Mire to find their scouts—while wandering around, she’d heard that they had scouts missing there, and it felt like the perfect excuse to head that way, if anyone asked.

Leliana had been surprised she’d heard of that already. Then, she’d explained that while it was kind of Finley to want to help everyone, she would do more good by staying—at least for now—at Skyhold to welcome their incoming allies. Grand Enchanter Fiona, the rebel mages, the rest of the templars, nobles, the list went on.

They would all want to speak with her, and to secure their aid, she would need to make sure she treated them with the respect and level of importance they deserved. Wouldn’t it be grand if the Grand Enchanter could be there to stand beside her when she was given her official title?

Commander Rutherford had been annoyed. He’d pointed out that waiting on the mages to arrive would be the same as waiting on Finley to go to the Fallow Mire.

She’d thought he was coming to her aid there, for a moment, saying that if they were going to wait for one thing, they could wait for both. However, his annoyance was at the fact that they both wanted to put something like that off for ‘less important’ matters. According to him, if they were to put it off for anything, it would be for rifts in more domesticated areas. That way she’d be helping people and expanding their influence at the same time.

Josephine hadn’t bothered to add her voice to the budding argument, instead scribbling across her paper, taking notes for something that Finley didn’t doubt would go over her head.

Finley had almost told them about the other mages, about the potential for Wilds’ help. However, she couldn’t bring herself to betray their trust. Even if these people had an inkling that there were others out there—it was hard to imagine they didn’t—they had no proof and no idea where to hunt.

And so she’d kept that bit to herself. After all, she wasn’t even sure they’d want to come out and help, and she doubted the commander or spymaster would deem such unsure assistance worth the inquisition’s time.

This little bit, however, wasn’t about the inquisition. It was about her Wilds, and she’d be damned if she was going to sit around and do nothing. She was already helping their world, but that didn’t mean she had to abandon her own.

Cassandra had been quiet during most of the proceedings, watching Finley.

However, as they’d broken down into more banal details that did not require immediate attention, it had been Cassandra who had suggested they call it a night.

While Commander Rutherford had asked if she’d like to take a walk around the gardens again, Finley had declined. Her heart had fluttered at the disappointment that had flickered across his face. It was gone in an instant, and he wished her good night and hurried off.

She _had_ gone to the gardens, without him. She’d felt a little guilty that her wandering footsteps had lead her there, but then, she’d had a lot to think about.

Not that she’d had long.

“I was relieved when you accepted the position,” Cassandra’s voice had drawn her from her thoughts. Looking down from the tree she’d perched in, Finley had found the woman standing at the base of the tree. There was a bit of a path behind her, where she’d tromped her way through the brush, though Finley thought it looked as though she’d at least attempted to take care with her steps.

“I noticed,” Finley had offered softly.

With a smile, Cassandra had leaned against the tree, still watching her with a careful gaze. “There is more to the mire than the missing scouts.”

“I…yes.”

She’d nodded. “I have never seen you so resolute to go somewhere before. Normally, you let us pull you wherever you are needed, but this…it is different.”

“…Yes.”

There was a silence over them as Finley wondered if she ought to explain at least to Cassandra about the note.

With another nod, Cassandra had motioned up to Finley. “You know I was the other candidate for Inquisitor.” When Finley hadn’t known what to say, Cassandra had given her the closest thing to a warm smile that Finley had ever seen. “Go. I will handle things.”

Even as Finley had dropped down from the tree branches, Cassandra had lightly caught her shoulder. “Do try to hurry back, though. You are needed here.”

After that, Finley had managed to get a little bit of sleep and then had woken her party a bit early so that they could head out before first light, before Leliana or anyone else could try to persuade her to stay.

She’d managed to keep them at a fast enough pace that there hadn’t been much talking for most of the trip, aside from Bull and Sera detailing the bits they’d heard about the failed mission in the mire. Despite knowing she’d promised to explain everything to Bull, she hadn’t tried to yet, still not sure what Blackwall might say about the deception.

He hadn’t asked for the information, either.

Thus far they’d closed three rifts along the way, and Scout Harding had met up with them to let them know more about the Fallow Mire. Finley had been surprised that she’d gotten there ahead of them, and had wondered if that meant that the advisors had accepted her actions, that perhaps Cassandra had said something to make them understand.

However, Scout Harding had addressed her as Herald, and Finley had accepted it. She’d had a chance to step up and take control of this Inquisition, a chance to be able to tell the templars they couldn’t travel through certain less inhabited areas, a chance to…she wasn’t even completely sure, but it had felt like something huge was on the verge of coming into being and for once she hadn’t wanted to shy away from it.

But this was important, too.

She wouldn’t abandon her fellow apostates for a chance at something she couldn’t even put words to.

Despite a few more questions from Sera, their conversation tapered off again as they marched on.

The air grew thicker, a suffocating weight to it accompanied by a stench that clung to the tongue, coating it with a rancid taste. There had been a great deal of sickness here.

Scout Harding told them it was a plague. Even without hearing that, Finley would have known. It was no Blight, but it was still a sickness that seemed to mar everything around it. The mire itself was sick with it, too. She suspected it was the dead bodies that had soaked too long in the water, some sort of awful magic restoring them to life at a whim.

At first she’d thought it might be some spell by a mage she might have known, someone who wanted to keep people at bay.

But this…she wasn’t sure what could have caused it.

And so she and her companions trudged through the muck, slaying the undead and searching for their missing scouts.

And all the while she looked for signs that her friends were there. Another bird, a whisper of a spell pointing to some secret meeting place, anything.

Bull had come up to her a few times with oddly shaped branches and clumps of leaves, looking a little more disappointed each time that Finley simply shrugged and said nature was odd.

If Bull was disappointed, she was disheartened.

They’d been out there for almost a week and a half when she finally made contact.

She could have missed his presence altogether. She’d been doing so well these last few weeks, that she hadn’t given taking one of the watches a second thought.

She’d been doing so well, and then, after having to fight contorted, rotted corpses, they’d come across one that had been mostly burned before being risen. It had brought the memories from the Conclave back to the forefront of her mind, and she’d known any dreams she had would be most unwelcome.

After lying awake all through the first watch, she’d assured Sera that she was more than alert enough to handle her watch—Sera had offered tossing Solas in the water to wake him up to take Finley’s place instead, but Finley had just waved her off.

And then she’d seen the fire flickering, and screams had started in her ears, and she’d been able to feel the wrongness in the air, as though something were watching her.

Watching and waiting, watching and waiting. Worse than a templar.

It had taken a sting to her shoulder to see the little leaf wasp fluttering beside her, a most eerie image as there was no buzzing to accompany it. She’d sucked in a sharp breath as the twisted bodies switched back to firewood and the stench of burned flesh shifted to rotting plants.

The wasp had hovered a few moments longer before she’d reached out to take whatever the note was. Instead of falling apart, it darted out of her reach and flew toward the edge of camp. When she didn’t immediately follow, it flew back, flitting around her head and nearly stinging her again.

Batting at it, she hesitated, glancing around the camp. It wouldn’t do to leave them unguarded as they were. Conjuring a small ward, she placed it over the fire so that, if anything came within the ward’s sight, a loud noise would wake the others from their sleep to defend themselves.

With that, she followed the wasp off into the mire.

She’d been jogging after the irritable spell for almost ten minutes before it abruptly veered away from the soggy path—it had been careful not to lead her too close to the water—and over into a mushy grotto that looked like it had seen far better days.

As she entered into a small campfire’s light, a voice came from behind her.

“Figures they fucking broke you.”

Turning back, Finley found an older elf sitting up on the rocks she’d just passed, angled so that he couldn’t be seen from the main path—it couldn’t be called a road. His long gray hair was damp against his head, as though he’d been bathing in the damned mire, rather than just walking through it. His clothes were patchworked, yet durable and thick enough to stave off the cold, and his gnarled old hands were wrapped around a long staff, which he rested across his knees.

With a running jump, she hauled herself up beside him barely noticing how the campfire below dimmed away to nothing.

“No one broke me.”

“I haven’t seen you all lost like that since the fucking Blight. I was ten minutes from just coming to get you in person,” he muttered, long, bushy brows pinching together for a moment before he shrugged. “You know I felt your contact spell cut off before I saw the damned hole in the sky. Knew they were related.” He took a bite out of some fruit that Finley was fairly certain was from her pack, back at her camp. “Figured you were dead.”

“Well, you could have checked,” Finley muttered.

“Did a quick scrying for you. Nothing. Like you didn’t exist in the world. Only dead things don’t exist.”

“I was in the Fade for a little while. I don’t know how long.”  She was surprised by how much better she felt just having him next to her. Donovan. Her cranky old mentor.

“Dream what you like, my spells don’t—”

“Physically in it,” Finley corrected. Then, before she could even consider if they were safe to speak alone like this, Finley started talking, explaining all that had happened, the Breach, the templars, the envy demon, the mark.

It wasn’t until her head was on his shoulder, her own shoulders a trembling mess as he rubbed small circles against her back that she realized she was sobbing. When she’d managed to gather herself a little, it occurred to her that Bull would be disappointed he didn’t get to meet with another woodlands apostate.

Well, Donovan was one of the few who actually liked using the mantle of witch, not that Finley would tell anyone that. If he crossed paths with anyone, he’d likely tell them himself. He was the dreaded ‘Witch of the Emerald Graves’.

She sniffled a little, suddenly feeling selfish for having taken over the conversation so completely. She should have asked how his garden was faring.

Or if there were any rifts near his home.

Before she could muster her voice, he shook his head, pausing to spit at the ground. “I told you not to go. Told them not to send you. Sodding cowards. Any one of them could have gone to the Conclave and…”

“Fared better?” Finley finished, feeling about as helpless as she had when she’d first woken up with the mark and everyone calling her a murderer.

“Hardly. Those worthless wastes of space would be dead, and we’d have no way to close the rifts…” He paused, taking her hand and inspecting the mark with care, wrinkled thumbs brushing over her palm. “Bastards would’ve been too busy getting fat by the finger food for that failed meeting to go check on some daft old broad screaming for help.”

“The Divine.”

“She isn’t my Divine.” He eyed her. “Didn’t think you were a believer, either. Thought I taught you better than that.”

“Oh, you’re taking credit for teaching me things now,” Finley tried to tease, though she couldn’t muster the energy for it to sound anything other than resentful.

Donovan sat there in silence for a moment before squeezing her hand. “So you were in the Fade. But you got out.”

“A glowing woman showed me the way or dragged me out or… I don’t’ really know. The rumor is it was Andraste.”

“You are the luckiest damned mage I’ve ever met,” Donovan whispered, hugging her a little closer.

“I don’t feel lucky,” she mumbled against his shoulder, feeling like a child.

“It’s an odd luck, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, patted her head and then began to pull a few tangles free before they could form larger knots. “Anyone else and they’d have figured out what was really behind you, and you’d be dead.”

Finley frowned at a small hole in his robes, not bothering to lift her head. “How could they know? I don’t even know. I don’t remember what happened.”

At that, Donovan stilled for a long moment, his shoulders tense. When he spoke again, there was hesitation punctuating his words. “You…what that thing had to have been really never crossed your mind?”

She sat up, defensive. “I can’t remember. Whenever I try it’s like the void is trying to swallow me up, drag me down into somewhere that’s just…nothing.” Her shoulders trembled, her throat tight. “There’s something there, but I can’t remember it, and it…”

She was crying as he murmured that she would be alright, hugging her to him again. He waited until she had calmed down before pushing the subject. She wished he wouldn’t. She didn’t want to think of it; it just brought back images of charred corpses and death and…

“Even with a hole in your memory, some part of you has to know what was behind you,” he murmured.

As she started to argue that, no, she didn’t know, the point he’d been trying to make hit home, burying itself in her and knocking the wind from her lungs.

She felt like her blood had turned to ice. Recoiling from the notion, she drew her legs up to her, withdrawing from his touch so that she could wrap her arms around herself. She wanted to blame him for the idea, but it… It made so much sense. Sense that she wanted desperately to be wrong. “No… It’s…it’s left me alone, mostly.”

“You really think it’d leave you be if you were actually _in_ its world?” Donovan tilted his head, leaning against his knees so that he could peer up at her. “Creators, the damned thing stalked me for almost two years to see if I’d give in just so that it could _talk_ to you. How many mages has it possessed so that it can trade a few words? And you think it wouldn’t _jump_ on the opportunity to see you in the flesh?”

Her heart sank. As much as she liked to pretend it wasn’t around, she knew better. She’d always known better. “It did help me when the templars kidnapped me. I…I was trying to outrun Envy, and I stumbled into something worse’s lair. It woke me up before…” She didn’t even know what might have happened. Didn’t want to.

“You know, I knew. I knew the _second_ I laid eyes on you to avoid you. That you were the sort that trouble followed like a damned lost puppy,” Donovan muttered, tossing a few elven curses around as he straightened up where he sat. “The Dread Wolf has you marked something wicked. Look at what follows you. Demons who want to play house, holes in the sky…”

“A borderline cultish offshoot of the Chantry who thinks I’m their chosen one.”

“Because said house demon probably saved you, and the twats mistook it for their beloved Maker’s Bride.” He shook his head slowly. “The fuck is wrong with humans? How did they miss the horns?”

“Maybe it wasn’t really…that, after all.” Even she couldn’t bring herself to believe that. Now that he’d pointed out that if anything would have been saving her from death in the Fade, it would have been the demon who’d stalked her since she was a little girl, it was hard to imagine divine providence.

He let out a grunt that could have been sympathetic, reprimanding, or just dismissive. It could be hard to tell with him sometimes.

“Well, if what you think is true, then I really am rather lucky they’re so delusional. After all, a mage saved by a demon isn’t likely to get the same sort of preferential treatment.”

He let out a low hum of agreement at that, nodding as his mouth formed a thin line. “An odd luck, like I said.” When that didn’t seem to lift her spirits, he let his gaze wander around their surroundings. “That creature really hasn’t been bothering you, though? No, ‘Come let mommy dearest’ help?”

“Please don’t call it that,” Finley whispered, shivering. As she absentmindedly ran her hands up and down her arms, she shuddered. “It hasn’t.”

“And you don’t find that odd, considering all that’s happened to you and its usual behavior when you _aren’t_ in imminent peril? I’m surprised it hasn’t found its way through a fucking rift itself.”

“I…” she tried to remember if her encounter with Envy had really been the last time she’d had to deal with her own personal demon. After a brief pause, her mind went back to the blizzard, and she paled as a few hazy memories tried to focus. “I think it tried to possess me. I nearly froze to death.” Panic twisted in her gut. “It said it couldn’t find good help or…what did it say?”

“That, if you’re remembering right, sounds like it’s going after someone you know, which would be more in line with the sort of thing it does.” Donovan scratched at his nose before sniffling. “Any of your friends here sleeping poorly?”

Finley baulked as her mind instantly went to Commander Rutherford.

He always slept poorly, though, didn’t he? People said he didn’t ever sleep, and that had been before they’d met.

And besides, he wasn’t a mage.

But Dorian was. And Lady Vivienne and Solas and Reinald and…all the rebel mages.

It would just have to find one compliant soul to come through.

And it had always been so good at finding those.

She felt like she might throw up.

Before she could try to think of a way out of this mess, a voice interrupted their conversation.

“Boss?”

Bull’s voice rang out from the path, not far away.

Donovan cursed under his breath, startling Finley before she could call out to her companion. “Listen, now that I know you’re not some templar trick, I’ll see if I can get the others to help map out any of these rifts.” He tugged a hair from her head. Even as she rubbed at her scalp, he pulled out one of his own and twined the two together. With a whispered word, they glimmered and then the light snaked out to Donovan and then Finley. As the light finally disappeared, Finley felt that familiar tug, that connectedness.

Their messages would be much more efficient now.

“Try not to get tossed in the Fade again, would you?” Donovan whispered, reconsidering the wasted warning and tugging a few more strands from her head as a backup in case she did, and then hopped down from their rocky ledge. As she followed him down, she just barely caught him muttering, “My heart can’t take this.”

Finley wandered back toward the road to see that Bull had passed them, still peering around, his large axe in hand. When Finley looked back at Donovan, he was gone.

She waited another moment before stepping out onto the path and calling out. “Bull!”

He whirled around, quickly making his way back to her. “I’m all for late night strolls, but maybe not in places with walking corpses, yeah?” He paused when he reached her, eye narrowed in the dim light. “Are you…”

“I have friends who will help us map out harder to find rifts,” Finley offered, wondering if Donovan was still close enough to hear them.

“So I take it we’re not looking for anymore bird messages?”

She would have thought he’d have been more disappointed than he was. Instead, he seemed more intrigued than anything else.

“There might be some more. If you and the Chargers can continue to keep them out of templar hands, that would be appreciated.”

“Alright, but I get to read the next one.”

“It was just an old friend telling me I’m an idiot and that I was probably a decoy.”

“I read that part,” Bull confessed, matching her stride as they headed back to camp. “Suppose I should tell you, but I’m a fast reader.”

“Then why were you so upset I wouldn’t let you see it?”

“I missed out on the very end of it.” He grinned. “For a spy, that’s kind of embarrassing. The end tends to have important details, like the who.”

“Well, this ‘who’ has nothing to do with anything you need to worry about,” Finley mumbled. She felt a little better, talking to Bull, but the constant reminder of what Donovan had pointed out to her kept her stomach roiling. She needed to get back to Skyhold.

But if she came back without the missing scouts that would look bad.

And every day that she wasn’t there was another day that that thing might be able to find someone to prey on.

Even as she felt her world grinding to a halt, a single thought stuck in her mind, a faint, frail hope.

“Bull, can you take the rest of my watch? I need to talk to Solas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading, and thank you all for reading!


	50. The Demon in the Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, it's chapter 50! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading along! This is an exciting point to hit :3
> 
> And, of course, thank you to the wonderful 0wallie0 for beta reading for me <3

Solas was asleep when Finley got to his tent, and in the ten minutes it had taken to walk back to camp with Bull, she had felt her resolve to recruit him to her cause wavering. Those ten minutes had stretched out forever, scenes both familiar and simply feared playing out in her head as she’d tried to think of how to bring up such a subject.

What if he was too interested in the demon? What if he decided to talk to it?

That…

He was quite fond of spirits. He’d told her how they could be corrupted, how they could be saved. What if he wanted to save this one?

Finley didn’t think that the monster _could_ be saved. She didn’t want to imagine that all of the things it had done had been because of some horrific misunderstanding.

And so when she’d shaken him and he hadn’t stirred, she’d decided it would be okay to wait until morning. After all, a few hours would hardly make a difference.

Except that it could make all the difference.

She knew this.

How many times had she thought something could wait a little while, only for time to run out before she was ready? This wasn’t something she should put off, yet she hadn’t been able to shake him again, even as her fingers brushed against his shoulder while he slept.

If he was having good dreams, he deserved them. She could drag him into her personal misery later, surely.

Even if time was…

After a few minutes, she slipped out of the back of his tent and out of the firelight, hauling herself up onto a rocky outcrop and moving away until she couldn’t feel the fire anymore. Bull might be cross with her for wandering off again so soon, but…

She needed to think.

She needed to make sure that when she told Solas about the demon, there was no room for doubt in his mind that it needed to be dealt with. It _was_ a monster, not some wayward spirit.

Finley sunk down into the wet, moldy moss, hands clutching her head as she curled up as small as she could. She wished that there was someone to talk to who she knew wouldn’t judge her. Someone who could listen objectively and tell her that she was right.

She knew she was.

It was just…

It was just that the last time it had shown up to ‘help’, its actions had put doubt into her mind.

She and one of her friends had been working on an augment to help ward off the Blight, when they’d gotten into a bit of a row over how to structure the spell. It had been a silly thing, really, but they were both recluses, and so being in one another’s company for so long had been taxing to begin with.

As tempers flared, Finley had told them to shove off and that they could figure it out without her. Insults had been hurled, as well as a few spells, and then she’d gone off to sulk for the evening. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that she needed to be more flexible—Donovan had taught her more than a few of her spells, and people always said that she’d picked up his penchant for criticism along with it—and so she’d considered that perhaps her friend had been on to something that she just couldn’t see because she was too busy being ‘right’.

She could remember rehearsing what she would say, about how she knew she could be a mite bit picky about spell structure, but if her friend felt it was truly something that they needed to try, she would be willing. She couldn’t promise she wouldn’t grumble, but she would do her best. She’d been reciting it over and over in her head when she’d reached their hovel and found them sitting on the rocks outside their home, waiting for her.

Even as she’d tried to remember how her ‘forgive me’ speech was supposed to begin—apologies were not particularly natural to her—the mage had looked up, inky black in their eyes and a greeting that sent chills through her.

_Hello again, Little Lamb._

She’d always been so afraid of that thing. It was the unbeatable monster that she had to outrun, but never could. With the templars, she could put distance between them, lose them in a bog, jump a chasm to get away, but with this thing…

The worst of it was that she never knew when it would show up. Never knew when it would try to whisper helpful hints about how to cast her spells while she was experimenting with her magic. She crafted her spells so that they couldn’t be interrupted, yes, but also to give that thing as little time to talk as possible.

Because it could talk forever.

Finley had once thrown out an entire spell set that she’d been trying because the demon had suggested a fix for a part she was stumped on, and she hadn’t been able to figure out a way to make the spells useable without following its instruction.

Its advice hadn’t been blood magic, but…she didn’t want it to think she would be open to other helpful hints.

Truly, it was better to just avoid it, when possible. 

However, that last time, something had snapped in her. It was just too much. As it had risen and walked over to her, her friend’s body moving in a way foreign to it, talking about all that they could do together, she’d screamed.

It had been a sound of frustration and anger, and that scream had stopped the demon in its tracks, bewildered.

She’d cursed the damned thing, told it she wouldn’t give it the time of day—a phrase she didn’t understand, but knew it meant ignoring someone—if she saw it in another person.

They were _people_ , and it took them over and discarded them like they were nothing.

It had tried to argue, tried to reason, tried to…

Finley had left. She’d ensnared it in roots and run. While she didn’t doubt it could have gotten out of the roots easily—likely had—it had just stood there, empty eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.

It had been quiet since then.

She’d heard through others that her friend had been released—well, seeing as they hadn’t known they’d been possessed, she’d heard that they were doing alright, just had an odd hole in their memory from the day after their fight—but she’d never tried to go make amends again.

It was better that way.

They were making headway without her, and without that damned demon whispering in their heads because of _her_.

So many times, she felt that the people it had hurt had been hurt because of her. And after that last time, she’d had a sick feeling that welled up inside of her whenever she thought of it. Time stretched on and it hadn’t possessed anyone new, hadn’t whispered in her dreams, hadn’t bothered her, and she had to wonder if it had really been so easy to make it stop.

That a few harsh words could have saved people before that, if she’d just thought to use them…

It had been during a night musing over that awful notion that she’d remembered another time, when she was far younger, back when her life had been easily at its lowest, back before the templars had saved her.

When she was a little girl, she could remember a boy stumbling across their camp while wandering the woods near his estate. She wasn’t sure where her father had gotten off to, but she’d been alone with the demon in control of her mother’s body.

As it had slipped through the shadows, easily getting behind the boy, face twisted in glee that it could play with something new, Finley had cried out.

She wasn’t supposed to talk, but she’d been so…distraught. She’d seen the boy earlier when she’d dared to wander from the camp to look for song birds and had found him feeding them, and she’d known he had to be something good. So when she’d seen that he was going to be the next of the demon’s playthings, she’d cried a single word from where she’d curled up, out of sight.

“ _No!_ ”

The boy had run off in fear of disembodied voices, and the demon had been left standing where it had been, never having attacked.

When he was far enough away, it had sauntered over to Finley and sat in front of her, reaching out and petting her like she was some sort of pet.

“ _No?_ ”  It had echoed.

She’d nodded, glancing after the boy. “ _Nice_.”

She hadn’t been good at speaking, and the few words she had picked up were ridiculed by her father. He hated that she couldn’t pronounce them right. He always complained that her voice was too high pitched and that it gave him headaches, and if he had a headache, he always took it out on the song birds.

To keep them safe, she kept as quiet as she could.

“ _How do you know he’s nice?_ ” The demon had asked.

Of the three—demon, father, and mother—it was the only one who would talk to her like such a thing was a worthwhile endeavor. The creature terrified her—when it did attack something, it was easily the most vicious of the three—but it had never made a move to actually hurt _her_ , and so, with no one else to talk to, she sometimes tried.

“ _Bers_.” That was the best she could do for birds, so Finley had made a hand motion toward the sky for emphasis. She needn’t have. It understood her. After all, all of the words she knew, the demon had taught her.

At that, the demon had arched her mother’s eyebrows, tilting its head. “ _You’ve been out of camp again_.” When Finley flinched away, it had reached out and pet her again. “ _It’s okay. Mother’s sleeping, and I won’t tell them. And we’ll let that one go_.”

As much as she didn’t want to trust that thing, it did seem like it _listened_ to her. Like it looked out for her, and almost all of its actions that she’d seen had been to help her, even if they were twisted and bloody and horrifying.

While part of her had wanted to try to order it to leave people alone, she was more afraid that if she tried that, it would try to make a deal, and if she said no, it would use whatever her demands were against her, picking off the people she wanted to keep safe until yes wasn’t such a scary option.

But then, the problem with that was she’d seen what had happened to her mother, how the demon had fed off her, picking away at her memories so that it could learn from them, gouging holes into her memory and being until her mother hadn’t known who she was or why she’d ever wanted a little thing that cried and required attention and maintenance.

Back when she’d still been with her parents, the demon had told Finley that her mother had loved her very much, and that she was sorry that the mage couldn’t remember that, but sacrifices had been _necessary_ for their deal.

Finley doubted a mother who loved their child would have willingly forgotten that love. Whether that meant the demon had stepped out of the bounds of their deal or her mother had never really wanted her at all was hard to say.

If Finley told Solas about the demon and convinced him that it was a problem, he would probably suggest killing it. It was a logical step, one that Donovan had drawn after it had stalked him for a few years, trying to get it to make a deal so that it could _check up_ on Finley. He’d known some spell that would let them enter the Fade. He’d been reluctant to cast it, as it was usually used for something called a Harrowing, but he’d thought that if a few of them went in together and stuck close in the Fade, they could handle anything that might notice their incursion.

Finley had been too afraid to see the demon again to go through with it. It knew _all_ of her fears, _all_ of the things that she kept hidden, and she didn’t want the few people she did trust to abandon her because it shared her sordid past with them.

Finley had dodged his persistent suggestions until Donovan had resentfully dropped the matter.

She’d been waiting the last few years for the demon to resurface, to show up wearing someone else, to continue to torment her and prove that she should have at least tried Donovan’s plan.

And now… Donovan had been quick to declare it after someone, and she’d been so used to the idea that it had terrified her, but…

In the blizzard, it had tried to possess _her_. It had said…why couldn’t she remember? _Had_ it possessed her? She hadn’t said yes. And who had it been targeting for help before it had grown so desperate to come directly to her with a plea they’d both known Finley would never accept?

Her mind kept going back to Commander Rutherford, but that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t a mage. It would gain nothing from possessing him. No magic, no power, and the second Finley saw that he was possessed, there would be no proximity.

So then, who…?

The truth of it all was that she just didn’t know how to deal with that demon. She could barely deal with ones who hadn’t stalked her for years, so how was she supposed to fight one she had? And even if they did beat it, would she ever really be able to believe it was gone for good? After all, it had been six years between that last possession and the Conclave.

Six years where she’d only occasionally felt it watching her from the Fade.

And now that it was back, it felt…different.

There had to be a way to bring this up to Solas without telling him everything. She’d made the mistake of telling someone about her demon before. Her last lover, Aubrey, had twisted herself into a blood mage after learning how Finley’s demon had an ‘odd way of helping’, trying to convince Finley to join her, to use her demonic patron to become something that would make the templars quake. Aubrey had been ecstatic, insisting that they would never need to hide from the templars again with a demon standing ready to fight them.

Aubrey had been another victim of the demon’s possession. Finley had found her lounging in the sun after a particularly bad fight over ‘wasting resources’, inky eyes closed as the demon basked in the sun in its borrowed body, offering that, “ _It’s alright, Little Lamb. This one won’t try to force blood on you anymore._ ”

If Solas was foolish enough to try to redeem it, Finley didn’t doubt he’d end up possessed. If he tried to kill it…a small, terrified part of her half believed it couldn’t be killed. It certainly knew how to jump out of bodies after possessing them.

But if she never asked Solas, she’d never know. Maybe there was a way to bind it to a tiny piece of the Fade where it couldn’t reach anyone or a way to just make it so that it couldn’t peer into certain people’s heads or…

There had to be a way to ask without explaining what the damned thing was.

Finley spent the rest of the night mulling it over, trying out different approaches and kicking herself when she couldn’t figure out how to omit the little detail that the damned thing had been more of a parent to her than her actual parents.

No one would trust a mage who was cared for by a demon. Her templars hadn’t. When she’d come into her magic, they’d known she’d never be accepted, and there had been fear in their eyes every time they looked at her. They’d known that with her history she would be made tranquil at best, if she went to a Circle.

Her mind wandered.

If Cullen found out…

He already didn’t like magic.

No. She could figure out a way to deal with the demon, and then it wouldn’t matter. No one would need to know about it because it would be gone, like it had never been there.

She just…had to find a way to make her query not about it.

Even as she’d hung her head in defeat, that familiar tug of sleep and the terror that came with it had bubbled up, and she’d felt her solution click into place.

And so, as her companions rustled through camp, half awake, with Bull giving her a rather disapproving look that said he knew she’d snuck off, she’d wandered over to Solas and lightly tapped his shoulder, quickly withdrawing her hand to give him his space.

When she had his attention, she leaned closer and whispered. “When I was fleeing Envy, I stumbled into something’s lair, and it’s been…watching me. Following my dreams, it feels like. I don’t know how wise it would be to seek it out, but seeing as you know so much more about the Fade, I was wondering if there was a way to…bind it or keep it at bay?”

Solas appraised her a moment, head cocked, that typical, curious look on his face that always graced his features whenever there was talk of demons or spirits or magic in general. “You think this creature is a problem?”

“I think I would have less trouble sleeping.”

“This…demon is a recent development?”

The way he asked that made her uncomfortable, but she shrugged a little. “Since Therinfal Redoubt. I…guess I thought it would go away if I ignored it, but that doesn’t seem to work.”

At that, Solas gave her a short nod. “I’m afraid I doubt I will have a solution for you tonight, but if you give me a few days to go through my notes, I think I can help you.”

“A few days?” It seemed surreal.

Solas gave her a quick smile. “Yes.”

With a quick nod, Finley felt like she hadn’t just spent all night wide awake and worrying. There was real, tangible hope that didn’t hinge of people she knew meeting her monster. Maybe she could finally, finally, _finally_ be rid of that damned creature. And the…fear demon or whatever it was, too.

Turning away from Solas, she scanned the rest of her group to see that they were read, and motioned down the path. “We should get moving. We’re bound to run into those scouts soon.”  


	51. Dreams and Tall Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen grapples with some newfound feelings and finds himself recruited by an odd ally into an endeavor he feels would be better suited for Leliana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading, and for helping me pick the chapter title!

Cullen wasn’t sure what had brought him to the gardens at this time of day, but it was such a relief to see those unkempt trees reaching toward the heavens with interwoven branches. A quiet part of him chastised himself for taking time for a break when he clearly needed to be working, but somehow he sure that if he turned around, he would find echoes of things he was always trying to move past. 

Blood and death, abominations and magic gone so, so, so wrong.

Even as the screams started to ring in his ears, the trees smothered them, pushing them back and giving him a peace he so rarely found. Glancing up, he half expected the trees to be watching him—for a moment he’d been sure  _ someone _ was—but they were just trees. He’d never really looked at them before, and there was something simply magical about them.

About all of the gardens, really.

They held a hazy light that he couldn’t help but feel was off for this time of day, and yet…and yet it was so pleasant that he couldn’t be bothered by it. Part of him warned himself to be wary, but it was hard to stay vigilant, here in the heart of Skyhold, where even his Herald had found solace.

His fingers drummed against the hilt of his blade as he wandered, not so lulled by the serenity that he would completely forget the hard lessons that had been scraped into his flesh and soul. 

_ Always be ready for something to go wrong. _

As he wandered, the gardens were more like a forest, winding on in wild paths that shouldn’t have fit in so small a space. 

That  _ did _ bother him.

Even as he considered that perhaps he had gotten lost somehow, that perhaps he wasn’t really in Skyhold, but somewhere else, he turned and saw Finley curled up beneath one of the trees, her wild orange hair glistening as though dew drops had caught in its tangles. Or as if little stars had come down to rest with her while she slept.

Without thinking, his feet carried him to her, though he stopped a few paces short, suddenly unsure what he was doing. She looked so peaceful. After all she had been through, it would be cruel to wake her. 

She so rarely got to sleep well. He knew the sort of burden that put on one’s shoulders.

Cullen considered staying with her a while, but then, he was the Commander and there was much that relied upon  _ his _ shoulders, and so long as he could carry most of it, perhaps there would be less to weigh down upon her. 

Shrugging out of his surcoat—an action that felt surprisingly familiar—he knelt to drape it over her.

He wasn’t sure what caused her to stir, but even as the cloth fell over her, she was pushing herself up groggily, rubbing at one of her eyes. The gold in them stood out more than usual, but it didn’t frighten him. 

The first time he’d seen her eyes, he’d been reminded of abominations, and it had left him a little nauseous. He’d told himself, however, that falling into the Fade was bound to have lasting effects on a person, and having magic catch in Herald Finley’s eyes seemed like the gentlest of burdens to carry.

Still, he felt shame well inside of him when he considered how quickly he’d been wary of her. Just because of a flare around her pupil. 

As he’d gotten to know her, though, it had become a sight he looked forward to seeing, a flash of light that was impossible to miss, and the way it flickered was oddly…comforting.

It was hard to be afraid of her. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, almost automatically. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

She ignored his words, instead inspecting the collar draped against her shoulder, her thin fingers running through the fur. 

Swallowing, Cullen fought back the wish for her to run her hands over  _ him _ with such care. 

To feel her skin on his would be…

Hands cupped his cheeks, and his gaze snapped up to meet hers. Her eyes were lidded, her face so close. “I need you, commander,” her voice was a soft whisper, a tease in that last word that made it sound more like a pet name than a title. His breath caught in his throat. Her lips were so near his. 

All he would have to do is lean forward and…

Maker, but the way she was smiling at him. He wanted to find the words to tell her how he felt, even though he wasn’t completely sure what this was. Infatuation? Longing? Something else?

Whatever it was that he felt, she was important to him, and he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind since that first morning he’d watched her sleep beneath the trees. 

Honestly, it had started before that, but it had come into focus then and there, in that muted dawn. 

Maker, but it was surreal that she could look at him like this.

When she’d accepted the role as Inquisitor, he’d been worried that she somehow felt she was being forced into it, but it had felt worse as he’d watched Josephine, Cassandra and Leliana begin to list all the tasks that would fall to her. Her shoulders had slumped ever so slightly, and then, when they’d expressed that it would be a bad idea for her to leave, it had been like the life had been drained from her. He’d been wracking his brain for a good schedule that they could come up with that would allow her to go to the Mire sooner than later when Cassandra had informed the lot of them that Herald Finley was gone.  

Without so much as a goodbye.

It had surprised him how much that hurt. Something was drawing her out there, and she hadn’t trusted them enough to say. Hadn’t trusted him enough. Had he not had her back at every turn in this miserable chain of unfortunate events thus far? That she could still be suspicious of him after all they’d been through…

Perhaps he oughtn’t to take it personally. Despite his efforts, he still found himself suspicious of magic. Perhaps it was the same for her and templars. 

Still…he trusted her. 

And he wasn’t a templar any longer. 

Despite being hurt that she would disappear on them as she had, he had pushed such feelings aside, assuring himself that when she returned— 

Wait.

When had she gotten back?

Even as he blinked, the space in front of him was empty. That inviting woods was gone, in its place cold and forlorn trees that looked like twisted limbs reaching up into an empty sky.

Her words echoed to him again.

“I need you.” 

This time, however, they were spoken in a young man’s voice.

He could feel eyes on him. He was being watched. It was something he didn’t want to see him, not on a regular dream, and not when he was thinking of… 

A faint laugh echoed from behind him somewhere, bouncing off the trees. 

“Commander!”

Eyes snapping open, Cullen sat bolt upright in bed, gasping as he nearly collided with someone who had been leaning over him. 

Even as Cullen took in a few uneven breaths, glancing around as though he half expected demons to be surrounding him as abominations wandered the halls beyond, his gaze landed on a young blonde boy who was sitting beside him, staring at him with large, doleful blue eyes. 

Cullen fought to recover from his dreams—pleasant as they had been for a few minutes, he couldn’t help the guilt that was bubbling up in him. That he would dream about Herald Finley… Maker, but he was going to have a hard time looking her in the eyes when she got back. 

Well, she was likely still a week or two out, so surely by then he’d be over this embarrassment.

Unless this was to be the first of many dreams. 

“A prelude, but one of pain or one of hope? To have her here, lingering and luminous like a light in the in the waking world, so near, so willing…or misery to have her not. It’s all too… You should talk to her when she returns,” the boy murmured, wringing his hands slowly as his eyes seemed to focus. “But not now. She’s away, and you’re here, and anyway  _ I _ need your help.” He paused, sitting up a little straighter. “It will help her, though. And maybe you.” 

“What?” Cullen couldn’t help but snap, feeling ill at ease as he tried to shake the vestiges of sleep from his mind. The boy wasn’t making any sense, and he almost dismissed him, but he had a nagging feeling that he wouldn’t want to go back to sleep just yet. “Why are you here? And…who sent you?”

“I came myself. No sending needed.” 

Cullen’s brow furrowed, and he turned slowly to appraise the boy. His clothes were patchwork and tattered, and while the majority of the Inquisition was in some manner of disarray, the boy seemed more so than most. “If no one sent for me, then why are you here? Who are you?”  

“Oh.” His eyes widened and then he bobbed his head, shaggy hair fluttering around his face. “I’m Cole. I’m help. You can ask Solas, if you’re worried, but Finley said I could stay.”

Cullen frowned. This boy…there was something about him that he felt he ought to remember, yet nothing was coming to mind. Had he met him before? No…

But he had heard of him…from where?

“Sister Nightingale and Lady Vivienne thought they handled everything. Send away the angry whispers, make time to make them mute. But not every anger finds a voice. Some keep quiet and watch and notice the little things that should be hidden. They reach out for answers, and we need to get them before they do. I don’t think they’ll use them for good. Which makes no sense, because there’s not any bad to find.” His shoulders slumped. “But people twist things so much…I..I would rather not leave it to chance.”  

Reaching up to rub his temples, Cullen wondered if it was because of a headache that was beginning to tighten across his forehead that he was having so much trouble following the boy’s words.

“I…sorry,” Cole offered. Even as Cullen tried to remember having said anything, Cole was on his feet, motioning for Cullen to come with him. “There’s a templar who kept a secret. He heard about a story and thought it might be part of this one. And he’s right. But instead of telling anyone, he asked for help, pretending he was ordered to. He’s going to get that piece of story if we don’t stop him, and I don’t think he’ll do good things with it. You, though…” At that, the boy fell silent for a moment, as though considering something. Finally, he nodded. “I think, if you see all the pieces and can still smile at her, it would make her very happy. I think you would sleep better, too.” 

The boy broke into two more rambles that were no more helpful than the first few before Cullen finally realized that Cole wasn’t going to go away until he helped with…intercepting a delivery or hearing a story or…his head hurt.

The boy seemed genuinely concerned for that, mumbling about old pains and scars that never healed properly. Cullen tried not to think about how some of what the boy said felt like it made sense, particularly in regards to certain unpleasant memories.

Maker, some of it felt like it came from his own head.

As echoes of Kinloch Hold filled his ears, the boy abruptly stopped talking, a rather deep frown animating his features, brow pinched together as he eyed Cullen as though he were troubled by him.

If he didn’t want to be in Cullen’s company, he should have found someone else for this little endeavor. Leliana came to mind, as she was more accustomed to espionage and the like. 

“Your hurt is very loud,” Cole mumbled, sounding almost indignant. “I thought I could untangle it, but it’s more of a mess than most.” His expression softened almost instantly. “I…I will figure it out. You’re just…complicated. You are good, though,” he rambled on. “In case the pain makes you forget. I know you’re good. It can be hard to keep track of, but you are.” His eyes seemed to widen as though he’d just seen something important. “You think—”

However, even as the boy sought to continue with this unbearable spiral of words that were plucking at feelings Cullen would rather not address at the moment, he noticed movement near one of the walls of the main courtyard. He and Cole had wandered out to the castle gates as the boy had gone on and on  _ and on _ , and Cullen was a little bothered at how little attention he’d been paying. He should have been more alert.

But the ache in his head and the boy’s words were… 

“He’s here.” 

Looking up, Cullen could see a figure riding in on a horse. With all of the renovations and incoming resources, they had decided to leave the castle gate open. With the bridge as long as it was—and being the only way into the castle, they’d felt it safe enough to leave open for those coming and going, as they would see enemies coming long before they could sneak in. 

And it helped that they had plenty of guards everywhere. Cullen had made sure of that.

He paused to nod to two patrolling past. 

Then, he walked forward to meet the horseman, waving him down and offering a casual greeting. He thought he heard a hiss of disapproval from somewhere behind him, but when he glanced over his shoulder, all he saw was shadows. 

For a moment, he thought he could see someone just in the darkness.

Before Cullen could make a move to investigate, Cole lightly gripped his arm. “The shadows can stay there. I’ll keep a watch on them. For now, we need the story.”  

“Greetings, ser,” the man began, giving Cullen a short bow. As he did so, Cullen realized he hadn’t any of his usual attire on to mark him as the commander—all he’d taken from his room with him was his sword, which rested reassuringly at his hip. Before he could make an effort to identify himself, the man—a templar—glanced around and then shrugged. “Suppose Teld’s got you picking things up for him this evening?” 

“He does,” Cole replied, motioning to Cullen as though to somehow exclude himself.

“Well, I gotta say it’s a bit odd of a fetch quest, but I found the old man he was talking about. He’s much too sick to make the trip here, but he gave me this.” He held up a leather-bound tome that looked like it had seen better days. “I just flipped through a few pages, but I’d wager this is all the spymaster is looking for and more.” 

Despite feeling a little lost, with Cole’s gentle prodding, Cullen took the tome when it was offered. Cullen weighed it in his hands, feeling as though there were mysteries and secrets whispering from the old pages, though he still wasn’t sure what they would be about or why Cole had been so adamant that he be the one to get them. If this was something for Leliana, then…

“As I said, I did flip through a page or two, ser,” the templar admitted, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I wasn’t trying to pry, just wanted to make sure I had right material.” 

When he nodded again, a bit worried, Cullen gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’re fine. This was good work.” 

A small smile slipped across the templar’s lips, and he had just excused himself to find somewhere to rest when he hesitated and turned back to Cullen. Whatever his reservations were, he held onto them another moment before finally shrugging and pointing toward the book. “Perhaps it wasn’t my place, but I have to say, of all the witches out there, I’m glad the Herald is this one.” 

Cullen’s gaze snapped up from the leather tome to lock with the templar’s. “What?” 

“She… The Green Witch. With her eyes as they are, that has to be her, doesn’t it?” The templar looked confused. “You…who did you say you were again?” The templar looked like he might try to take back the book.

Cullen frowned. “I’m Commander Rutherford.” He paused when the man looked suspicious. He  _ wasn’t _ wearing any telling articles of clothing, after all. Dressed as he was, he looked like any other soldier around the keep. 

Not wanting a confrontation, especially considering what this book might have in it, Cullen motioned to the man. “I’ll see to it that Sister Nightingale gets this. Come. I’ll walk you to the tavern and see that you get a proper bed for your efforts. If the people there don’t recognize me, you can have the book back.” 

At that, the man seemed more comfortable, nodding as he fell into step with Cullen, and they wound their way up into the higher courtyard. 

Cullen glanced down at the book, flipping a few pages and frowning as it was far too dark to see any of the words clearly. Trying to read it without light would just make his headache worse. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve been rather preoccupied with security, and Sister Nightingale has been in charge of finding information on our Herald. When did she learn of this…witch that she believes the Herald to be?” 

Despite the man’s earlier suspicions of Cullen, something seemed to have set him at ease, for he spoke to Cullen as though they were old friends rather than someone he hadn’t trusted not a few moments ago.

“I can’t honestly say. A friend reminded me that we knew an old templar who was after a witch with eyes like our Herald’s. Ser Ross. He’s considered a bit of a crackpot, but it turns out he knew quite a bit about the Green Witch. He’s been searching for her for over a decade. Apparently as soon as he heard of the Herald, he tried to make the trip to Haven, but didn’t get very far. Health’s failing him now. When I met him, he was saying he would come to Skyhold when he felt better, but…” The templar’s eyes lowered. “I think he’s too far gone to ever make it all the way up here.” 

They reached the doorway to the inn just as a few soldiers were slipping out, and at their salutes, the templar seemed to have any remaining suspicions dispelled. Cullen saw to it that the man was put in a decent cot, and then headed back to his own chambers. He’d have an hour or two to try to catch up on sleep if he wanted, but he already knew that he would instead be raiding their supplies for a candle to get a good look at this book.

After all, someone had wanted him to see it first.

He paused when he wondered what it was that had even made him get up. There had been someone, hadn’t there?

Where had they gone…?

Even as he paused, glancing around, he saw movement in the shadows not far from him, and his hand instantly went to the hilt of his blade. However, wandering closer to the movement was fruitless. There was nothing but empty shadows, and in the end, Cullen returned to his room to look over what might well be a link to Herald Finley’s past. 

When he was settled in, with a candle lit and the book in his lap, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a sort of betrayal, reading about her adventures when she wasn’t there. 

But then, these weren’t really stories of her, surely. They were the stories of a witch.

A ‘witch’. 

Maker, but it always gave him a headache to deal with rumors of witches and insanely powerful apostates and the like. The thought that Herald Finley might be the sort to perpetuate such tales was preposterous at best. 

After all, she’d been very adamant that she was just a simple apostate…

Gaze wandering down, he flipped the journal open to the first page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it's been so long since I updated this. Life has been kinda kicking my ass, so I don't know that I'll be able to go back to a regular posting schedule, but I'm going to try. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and to those of you who've stuck around <3


	52. A Gathering Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading! And thank you to everyone who reads!
> 
> Also, a note: This is a Cassandra chapter, so it's got hints of Cassandra x Yorric Trevelyan in it.

It had always surprised Cassandra how a few quick words could ruin a perfectly good morning.

_Inquisitor Pentaghast._

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise as soon as the thought crept into her mind. She had been the Divine’s Right Hand, yes, but that hardly put her in line to inherit the whole of the Inquisition. Being the inquisitor was the last thing she needed.

And being mistaken for the inquisitor… She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

However, with Finley off doing whatever it was she’d needed to do, people were trying to figure out who was in charge, who to bring problems to, and—by far the worst—who to suck up to.

With a grunt of frustration, she tugged on the rotted door that she’d been trying to take down, one of its hinges refusing to come out of the wall. Cassandra was working in what was to be the guest corridors, a place that overlooked the garden and had a long outside hall with dozens and dozens of doors leading into large chambers full of mostly decaying furniture. There’d been a few things to salvage, and they were moving intact beds and dressers to the rooms closer to the main hall for now, so that the nobles reportedly en route would have somewhere to stay.  

Leliana’s contacts in Amaranthine were sending lumber that would be arriving by the end of the week, and they planned on putting them to work as soon as they arrived. New doors were one of the first things that were going to be put in, wherever the foundation was stable enough. Josephine had contacted Orzammar and an Orlesian noble about sending stone for rebuilding, and they had heard favorably back from both, as well as from a few of Varric’s sources. Better yet, Lady Cadash’s carta had come through, and they’d seen their caravan enter into the valley early this morning. A few of the younger, more energetic soldiers had gone down to meet them and help things along—there had been cheering when one of the guards had spotted their approach—and the head architect with them was going to look over the castle and see what else would need to be done, as well, as per the letter that had preceded their arrival.

Future shipments might require more coin, but for now, it seemed that the cartas and Orzammar were more interested in forging an alliance than draining the Inquisition’s coffers.

It was a good thing that no one knew most of their coffers had been buried with Haven. While they had discussed sending a team back to Haven to retrieve them—they couldn’t pretend to have those missing coins forever—it had been decided that Skyhold would be the priority, at least for now.

Once Skyhold looked at least a little respectable, then they could worry about Haven.

The door wasn’t going to budge. With a growl of growing frustration, Cassandra took a few steps back and then gave the door a hard kick.

With a loud bang, it finally flew off its rusted hinges and nearly sent someone walking past careening over the balcony.

“I’m so sorry, I—” Cassandra darted out into the hall and baulked when she found Ser Yorric rubbing at a few scratches on his swarthy bicep.

He looked up with a grin. “It’s alright. I assume that door was in the wrong.”

With a huff, she turned her gaze toward the offending piece of wood, trying to inspect it as though she might find something salvageable in all its rot. There was no saving it, of course. And even if there had been, the split it sported now would have made it useless for nigh everything, save perhaps an awkward table.

She sighed and turned to look at the mess inside—Josephine was dearly hoping they might find some decent drapes that could be refurbished into Inquisition banners. While the one that Finley and the others had draped from the highest tower when they’d come ahead of the main group to lay claim to the castle was something, it was also a tent. A tent that had had pieces of clothing sewn into it to make their symbol. While one couldn’t tell from a distance, it was something they suspected nobles would pick out in a heartbeat upon entry to the castle.

Nobles who would likely be giddy to report back their hodgepodge means to anyone who would listen.

Sadly, this room held no miraculously intact drapery. It did have an old, hole-riddled banner hanging on the far wall, beside the small window, however.

Such a shame.

Cassandra had suggested that showing the nobles the dungeons first might be the better method for ensuring that they not act so prattish, but Josephine had merely frowned at her and then said something about making certain they felt welcome.

When she’d made her way to the war room this morning, she’d heard Josephine practicing what she might say about their new home, explaining the repairs in progress and what had already been done.

It had broken her heart a little that they even needed to offer such explanations. Too much had already been lost, and it felt like a slap in the face to think people would be so critical now.

To know that they would be.

Anyone who passed through the gate could see that repairs were underway, that every person in Skyhold was doing something to help make the place a home.

Dragging over an old nightstand, Cassandra tried to step up on it so that she could reach the top of the wall banner and simply pull it off its hooks—while the support rod would need to be replaced as well, it wasn’t as noticeable as the mothball-riddled fabric, bearing some coat of arms that had long since become too faded to see and she figured they could leave that in place until someone better trained in construction could come along and tend to it.

As she put her second foot on the top of the nightstand, the top gave out, and she fell through, her boots saving her ankles from the sharp splinters of wood.

She barely noticed that, however, instead rather preoccupied with the strong, sturdy arms that had saved her from the floor.

“I have to say as soon as I saw what you were doing, I knew it would be a bad idea.”

“Yet you did not try to stop me?”

Ser Yorric grinned, still holding her around the waist, her back flush against his chest, as she managed to wriggle her feet free from their wooden prison. “Would you be angry if I told you I was hoping this might happen?”

“Hoping for what?” Cassandra quipped, planting her feet on the ground. He let go of her before she could awkwardly ask him to. “For me to nearly kill myself in so banal a manner?”

“I was more thinking of having a lovely lady falling into my arms.” His breath tickled her ear as he replied, and she was certain her cheeks were several shades redder than usual. Maker, help her. Even as she floundered for what to say, he stepped around her and peered up at the banner. “Well, either it stays there or we just yank it down.” When she didn’t immediately respond, he glanced over at her and then grinned. “Did I embarrass you?”

With a disgusted noise, she shook her head, reaching out and gripping the old banner. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“Good. That wasn’t my intent.” He flashed her another smile as he reached out and gripped the fabric, the muscles in his arms moving fluidly beneath his skin as he did so. “It’ll go faster with two.”

Cassandra snapped her gaze back toward the banner. She could almost make out part of an animal in the crest. Taking a moment, she swallowed and then nodded. “On three…”

It only took them two tugs to get the damned thing down, and once it was, Ser Yorric took it from her and started toward the hall. “We can just leave the useless bits out in the hall for Jensen to handle.”

“My thanks for that,” an annoyed voice called to them, and Cassandra couldn’t help a slight smile herself when she glanced back to see the younger Trevelyan disappearing from sight with the broken door.

“He has my sympathies,” Cassandra offered, attempting a joking tone, though it fell flat, like her jokes usually did.

As Ser Yorric returned to the room, she gripped that useless nightstand and hauled it over to the door, pleased to see that her helper was content to let her handle her own work, without automatically trying to take over. As he brought a few broken pieces of the bed out, he glanced down the hall, as though expecting his brother to already be back, and shook his head. “None of that, dear lady. It’s what younger siblings are for. And he has a lot to make up for, anyway.”

As he launched into a story about a time when he and Ser Jensen had gotten into trouble as children, before they’d been sent off to be templars—and debatably why they’d been sent off to be templars, assuming Ser Yorric wasn’t embellishing horribly—Cassandra couldn’t help a small smile. Were Anthony to have lived, she could imagine him telling similar stories, pestering her with the authority given to him simply because he’d been born first.

It made her heart hurt to think of what could have been, and her smile slipped.

“I…it wasn’t that bad,” Ser Yorric amended his tale, abruptly ceasing with the details of how their local Chantry’s stained glass windows had never been the same since. “I promise. We had it all fixed by the end of the week. And we were eleven and seven, so it’s not like we’ll do something like that here.”

“…What? Oh,” Cassandra felt a bit of heat creeping into her cheeks for the second time since he’d shown up. “I apologize. I was distracted.”

Walking back with him, she inspected the bed to see if it might be salvaged. It was half buried under a pile of debris that had caved in from the ceiling. Rather than the sky, they could simply see up into a higher room. More work.

They continued on for a while in silence before Cassandra realized it. Shouldering a few pieces of wood awkwardly, she glanced at him. “I apologize. I am not the best at idle banter.”

“Better not to be idle, anyway,” Ser Yorric offered, hauling a broken beam over his shoulder and starting toward the door. “Besides, you probably have a lot on your mind, anyway. Running the Inquisition can’t be easy.”

Cassandra stopped in the middle of the room, eyes widening slightly as someone assumed she was Inquisitor for the second time that day. “You think I run it?”

“Well, you do, don’t you?” Ser Yorric dropped the old beam onto the slowly amassing pile in front of the doorway.

“Hardly.” Cassandra tossed her burden onto the pile as well and then brushed her hands off. Her muscles ached dully, but it was a good feeling. Though, she would have preferred it to be from swinging a sword.

“Who in the void runs this place then?” Ser Yorric asked, hopping up to stand on the unstable pile of debris to look around for signs that his brother was coming to pick up more of it. Or anyone really, she supposed.

After a moment, he hopped back down, coming to stand in front of her, a single brow quirked. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“If you’re not the one in charge, who is?”

“Herald Finley is to be the Inquisitor,” Cassandra admitted before glancing toward the door, as though expecting to see a dozen onlookers with mouths agape. “There will be a ceremony when she returns.”

“And that will be…?”

“I do not know,” she replied before she could stop herself. With a quiet curse to herself, she wondered why she was so readily able to tell this man everything. “I would rather you not repeat that to anyone. She will be back sooner than later.”

“My lips are sealed.” He hoisted a half rotted nightstand up—likely from the room above—and carted it toward the door. “Though I would like to point out that you’ve done a fine job so far.”

“And just what have I done?” She paused before adding, “Aside from ‘recruiting the templars’.”

With a laugh, Ser Yorric paused to wipe some sweat from his brow. His long dark hair clung to the nape of his neck, where his ponytail was tied off and he did look quite…handsome. Cassandra forced her eyes to wander so that she wouldn’t look like a swooning idiot. “Remember when Commander Rutherford was off saving the Herald, and we found out that that merchant had the foresight to bring twelve tents with him? And he was trying to charge people to use them?”

Cassandra scoffed. She remembered it well. The bastard had tried to insist that he didn’t have to give up on making a profit just because they’d all nearly been slaughtered. They were ‘his’ wares to do with as he pleased. One of the recruits had insisted at least one of the tents he had belonged to her fallen brother, and the outcry that he would rob the dead like that had threatened to start a riot.

While Cassandra _had_ stepped in and settled the matter with a swift implication that she would gladly let the good people take the tents however they felt they ought to, anyone could have done that. Leliana would have likely interceded before things got too out of control, had she reached the merchant before Cassandra.

As it was, Cassandra had just been closer.

“And who was it going around and helping pitch tents every evening while we were in the mountains? Helping gather firewood, working with Commander Rutherford to organize hunting parties and the like?” Ser Yorric hesitated, fingers drumming against his chin as he tried to think of more examples. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re the one person who the commander occasionally defers to. You’re the one person who Sister Nightingale discusses problems with. I’ve even seen Lady Montilyet ask you a few questions about nobles you’ve interacted with.”

She couldn’t stop the disgusted noise that caught in her throat.

“I…”

“For what it’s worth, I’d follow you anywhere.” When she looked at him, his expression was earnest. With a shrug, he turned to finish cleaning out the room. “You’ve always done what’s best for the Inquisition. If you feel someone else in charge is for the best, then I’ll follow them, too, but it will be because I trust your judgment, not necessarily theirs.”

“You…” Cassandra felt the flush settle in her cheeks. Maker, but this man could push her off balance with a word, couldn’t he? Shaking her head, she moved to help him tug an armoire away from the wall. Perhaps she’d been working too hard. It certainly felt like the heat was getting to her. “What of Herald Finley? She’s already the face of the Inquisition.”

“A mascot does not make a leader,” Ser Yorric grinned when Cassandra inspected him, searching for some twist or joke. “I’m sure Jensen would be all for that, but I’d like someone who doesn’t look like she’s about to have a heart attack whenever a templar looks her way.”

Frowning, Cassandra eased her grip on the armoire, and Ser Yorric followed suit. “Finley has been doing much better with her fears.”

“Around you, maybe.” Ser Yorric glanced toward the door as he crossed his arms, watching as Ser Jensen finally returned with a few others to start carting things off. He waited until they were gone before continuing. “When Ser…ah, who was it? Ser Connell? He caught her trying to leave camp, shortly after she woke up.”

“I recall hearing about it.”

“According to him, she was acting highly suspicious. When Jensen and I got there, she was ready to fight to get away. Maybe she had the right to, but that’s not how a lot of people saw it. They saw a rogue mage—who was supposed to be some savior—acting erratically. There’s been talk since.”

“What kind of talk?”

Ser Yorric shrugged. “More than a few templars don’t trust her. They find it a little too convenient that a no name apostate was the only survivor of the Conclave. They wonder about the tale of the darkspawn magister, as only she and the Tevinter fellow could name him, and we only heard her story after he’d helped her.”

“People think Ser Pavus coached the Herald on what to say?”

“Not many, but enough that it might ruffle feathers were she to ascend to power.” He hesitated and then added, “And people have noticed that the strongest voices against our dear Herald have all been sent away on missions of some sort, leaving the castle rather peaceful. A few are wondering if they’ll ever be seen again.”

Cassandra’s lips dipped down into one of her usual frowns. Surely Leliana already knew of this—especially if the more problematic individuals _were_ being sent off on trite tasks. However, even knowing that Leliana was most efficient, she had to fight the urge to sprint through the halls until she found her and reported this problem.

For it could be nothing else.

Finally, however, she decided that she would wait until they’d finished with this room, so as to not look too panicked. After all, more people were watching her than she’d expected, and she didn’t want that sort of fear spreading so soon after they’d found their new home.

Appraising Ser Yorric, she motioned toward him. “What do you think? Of our Herald?”

At that, he blinked. “I think that I owe her everything for saving my brother. He’d have likely ended up ingesting that red lyrium or dying in some pointless squabble if not for her. She can close the rifts, and I have every intention of helping her do so, in whatever way I can, be it marching with her or making sure that the homestead is safe.” He paused, uncrossing his arms. “And I know you frown on insubordination, but do consider that if I hadn’t defected to look for him, I’d likely be a red templar.”

“With the way you follow orders? Doubtful.”

He grinned. “I’ve followed all of yours, haven’t I?” Even as she let out a bark of a laugh at that, he shrugged again, resuming their earlier work. “If you feel the Herald would make a good leader, then so be it. Just…there will be resistance to that. I’m sure you could handle that quiet well, though.”

“I suppose I could,” Cassandra agreed, oddly set at ease by his faith in her. She moved back to the armoire as well, getting a firm grip upon it. “I was the Right Hand of the Divine for a reason.”

With another of his characteristic wide grins, Ser Yorric braced himself against the heavy wood and looked at her. “On three again?”  

They’d just gotten the armoire out of the room—after a lot of cursing and nearly toppling the damned thing onto themselves—when Ser Jensen was back. He was alone, and his countenance spoke volumes to why.

“Inqui—”

“Just Lady Pentaghast,” Ser Yorric interrupted a bit too quickly, though his brother had already spoke enough syllables of the damned title that one of Cassandra’s more pronounced frowns was well in place. Exactly how many people had decided she was the Inquisitor already?

Ser Jensen glared at his brother before as though to say ‘I told you so’ before addressing Cassandra. “Lady Pentaghast, there’s reports of more templars en route to Skyhold.”

Her frown lessened. “I am not surprised.”

She hadn’t heard of any larger groups coming to join the cause, but they were receiving smaller sets of travelers every day, templars included. Even a few solitary mages had made their way to the Inquisition already.

“People are trying to keep it quiet from you and the others in charge,” Ser Jensen explained, glancing from her to his brother and back. “They’re being led by Ostwick’s knight-commander.”

“The knight-commander’s dead,” Ser Yorric retorted, looking most annoyed with his younger sibling. “He was at the Conclave.”

“Funny how succession works,” Ser Jensen muttered, before trying to salvage a somewhat professional air as he turned back to Cassandra.

However, before he could explain, Ser Yorric had gripped him by the shoulder. “Maeville? He’s leading them?”

“He _was_ the knight-captain,” Ser Jensen muttered, clearly annoyed that it even needed to be stated.

Cassandra looked from Trevelyan to Trevelyan. “This Knight-Commander Maeville is not someone we want here, I take it?”

“Ostwick’s Circle was fairly lenient toward mages,” Ser Yorric explained slowly, rolling one of his shoulders as though the work with the armoire had taxed his strength. “Which made it all the more bizarre when they lashed out so violently during the rebellion, but I digress. Compared to Kirkwall and Starkhaven, mages seemed happy to get transferred to our Circle. And to stay there.”

“Still digressing,” Ser Jensen muttered.

After giving him a look, Ser Yorric turned back to Cassandra. “Anyway, our knight-commander believed in leniency, in trying to not make the Circle feel too much like a prison, as it’s so often compared.”

“We are getting to the point of this soon, I hope,” Cassandra interjected.

Flashing her another grin, Ser Yorric nodded. “I was promoted to knight-captain, and then someone somehow noticed that Jensen is my brother. Apparently we hadn’t been brotherly enough before then, but it was felt I would be lenient on him as his superior, so I was…traded off. Sent to Cumberland’s Circle while their knight-captain came to Ostwick.”

“Our father was not pleased,” Ser Jensen muttered. “He acted like it was my fault you were gone and harassed me to ‘fix’ the situation, like I could.”

“Now who’s digressing,” Ser Yorric retorted.

Ser Jensen looked ready to protest at first, though a sharp look from both Cassandra and Ser Yorric made him change his mind. He gathered himself and shook his head. “Maeville was a terror. Our knight-commander was constantly having problems with him because he would try to punish the mages for simple things that weren’t even actually problems. Always said they ‘needed to know their place’.”

“I never met him,” Ser Yorric added, “but the stories I heard…Maker, but he was about as far from Andraste’s teachings as you can get. Didn’t help that the knight-commander in Cumberland was much the same. He tried to get me demoted because I wouldn’t manhandle the mages when he wanted me to.”

“Maeville wanted to make some of the mages tranquil, after they’d already passed their Harrowings,” Ser Jensen murmured. “Said they were doing it in Kirkwall without repercussion, so why not do it in Ostwick.”

“And _he_ was not demoted?” Cassandra asked, feeling a ball of bile forming in her throat. The Seekers were rarely called in to deal with just one individual, so it wasn’t a surprise that she hadn’t heard of this man, but it _was_ somewhat of a surprise that he could have been allowed to keep his power. She liked to think the system hadn’t been completely broken.

More and more, however, it was obvious that the Order had fallen far from grace.

“Funny story. Our knight-commander moved to get him kicked from the Order the same time Cumberland’s was moving to have me kicked from the Order, and so it was decided that there was clearly a difference in our training, and our knight-commanders both came under scrutiny,” Ser Yorric explained. “Then they were both decided to be fit, and that Cumberland ‘needed to be stricter’ because they had more blood mages than Ostwick.”

“We didn’t have a blood mage problem,” Ser Jensen said, his voice took on a bitter tone as he added, “Didn’t think we had any problems until the rebellion hit, and the mages started smiting people. Suddenly Maeville’s words about leniency seemed to have a bit of truth to them.” His gaze had dropped, though his expression spoke volumes to what he wasn’t saying. “Regardless, Maeville is going to make things difficult if he gets here. The Herald is a good woman, and he’ll likely take one look at her and ask how no one has figured out that she’s an abomination.”

“And if the stories are true, he’ll make sure to make the accusations as publicly as he can,” Ser Yorric added. His earlier humor was gone now, glancing down the hallway without really looking at anything in particular. “And he won’t settle for some quiet discussion.”

“That’s the least dramatic thing he’ll do,” Ser Jensen muttered. “It will be a nightmare if he gets to Skyhold.”

“You are certain he is coming here?” Cassandra asked, gaze darting from one to the other.

“Well, people don’t exactly come to us with discontent,” Ser Yorric admitted, turning toward his brother as though prompting an explanation.

“Cadwin has a countenance that…well, it makes her seem less pleased with situations than she usually is,” Ser Jensen explained. “A few people have approached her a couple times about…ideas. She lets them keep thinking she doesn’t like the current situation so that they keep coming to her.”

“People assume she’s with our group because she’s with Jensen,” Ser Yorric added. “They don’t realize Jensen’s a man’s man, and she’s a lady’s lady.” Ser Yorric gave his brother a disapproving frown at that, even as Jensen was rolling his eyes. “You’re never going to find someone if they think you’re not interested in—”

“ _I’m_ not here to find romance, _Yorric_.”

The two brothers glared at one another a moment, faces changing with minute expressions that only they could read, a silent argument battling out before Cassandra’s eyes.

Again she was reminded of Anthony.

Rather than letting herself get drawn into memories, however, she took in a deep breath and pointed toward the room. “Will you finish here? I need to find Leliana.”

Both of the men stopped their little war, Ser Jensen standing at attention quicker and longer than his brother. “Yes, Lady Pentaghast.”

Despite the urgency in her steps, as Cassandra passed through the main hall—her course took her right past where Varric had set up his own little table for writing to his own contacts—she came to a stop.

Varric was innocently scribbling away on a piece of parchment, and looked up to see her, that annoying, crooked smile of his tugging at his lips as he addressed her. “Seeker! Here to make sure I’m not fleeing for my life?”

With a disgusted noise, she began to walk again, glancing toward the main door. She could have sworn she’d seen someone slip around the wall that created the small alcove just before the main hall. That anyone would be hiding _here_ was…

“Were you just talking to someone?”

“Me?” Varric gave her an innocent look that said he was anything but. “Seeker, I think maybe you need more rest. You’re seeing things.”

Gaze narrowed, she started to take a few steps toward where she’d seen someone disappear, but stopped herself. If it had been someone who was a threat to the Inquisition, Varric wouldn’t be playing games. He might be an unbearable ass, but he believed in the cause.

She could deal with him later.

First, she needed to talk with Leliana.

“Oh, Seeker.” Varric’s voice interrupted her as she resumed her earlier pace. When she stalled herself, glancing back at him, not bothering to hide her annoyance, he motioned over his shoulder. “The horses have come in. I was thinking that I might take some out to meet Stardust, give her a faster ride back to the castle.”

Cassandra hesitated. “That would be…helpful.”

With a grin and a shrug, he laughed. “I’m not _all_ talk, you know.”

“You will need a few people to come with you, to make sure you can bring enough—”

“Seeker, Seeker, Seeker,” Varric wagged a finger at her. “I’ve got this. Sparkler is getting a little stir crazy, so he and another mage or two are gonna come with me.”

“It would be wise to bring a few warriors with you as well, just in case you encounter red templars or bandits.”

“I’ve got this,” he repeated. “I just wanted to let you know, so that you wouldn’t send the guard after me for stealing horses.”

Rolling her eyes, she put a hand on her hip, meeting his gaze with a tired one. “Yes, well. Thank you for that.” With a nod, Varric began to shuffle through his papers, and Cassandra turned away. Just as she stopped to wonder if Varric had heard anything about the templars coming or the like, she glanced back and saw that he was already gone.

She was tempted to go after him, but decided against it. Leliana would likely know more, anyway.


	53. Nothing Stands Still Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading for me!

The night before, the skies had been mercifully clear—for the first time since they’d left the mire, actually—and Finley and her companions had all been rather pleased to be able to say that they’d officially left the undead and dismal swamp behind.

That was what Warden Blackwall had called it, anyway.

Finley rather liked swamps. Sure, they could be a little hard to wander through, and yes, the undead had been awful, but the swamp itself had an odd sort of charm. The animals, the flowers, everything about it was so unique.

And swamps were always great for losing templars in, not that she’d needed to this time, of course. Still. There was definitely a fondness for them that stemmed from that simple fact that she couldn’t help but appreciate.

Regardless, she _was_ glad to leave the undead behind, and to have been reunited with Donovan.

And everyone shared in her better mood.

Sera was pleased that they’d helped the scouts. The whole lot of them had been astonished that the great Herald herself would come to their rescue, and Finley had been somewhat floundering for what to say when Sera had slung an arm over her shoulders and shrugged with her other, making some dramatic, vague motion around them. “She’s good people, yeah? Just like you ‘n me.”

And that had, apparently, been all that was needed to be said. There had been a few more ‘thank you’s tossed about, but for the most part, they had all just become a rather large party, heading back to the nearest outposts. None of them had been averse to healing magic either, which _had_ been a little trying, but fortunately there had been no grave injuries, and Finley was able to handle it well, with Solas and the Avvar, Sky Watcher, stepping in to assist to make the work go faster.

Blackwall was happy to have recovered lost Grey Warden artifacts, and had spent most of the trip back inspecting the different things—a banner and a book—and even offered to let Finley read as well. She’d been reluctant—the Order’s secrets were supposed to stay within the Order, after all—but Blackwall had told her it was okay, and so she’d giddily spent a few evenings poring over the information with him, finding that most of it was a little droll, but still interesting. They’d found a journal about someone looking for ways into the Deeproads, and it didn’t say much more than whether or not the places had been sealed.

Bull was thrilled because they received quite a few bird messages, from quite a few different people, and Finley had let him read them, when she knew they were safe to share. He’d made notes on how some of them seemed to have different flourishes in the feathers or shaped different birds—once a wasp—and was soon able to tell when she was getting a message from which mage. The one thing she didn’t particularly care for was the way he made up names for the different mages when she wouldn’t tell him their real ones.

It felt like he was keeping count, and that wasn’t something she wanted _anyone_ doing.

Truly, though, it seemed that her fellow apostates had all been waiting for proof that she was _really_ herself and not the templars’ latest trick to lure them out of hiding. With Donovan sending word that all was right and real, they’d opted to restore contact.

So far, she’d gotten twelve messages, from four of her fellow apostates, and had already gotten into an argument with an obstinate fool named Marcus who was apparently trying to encroach on her home in the Wilds.

While she didn’t have a place she would stay indefinitely, there were a few spots in the Wilds that she tended to come back to, Donovan’s home being one of them. The rest were old ruins and caves, with one cave being her favorite because it opened up onto a cliff and gave a rather stunning view of the forests around.

And apparently Marcus liked the view, too, and was planning on having Finley’s personal affects ‘sent her way’.

While she didn’t doubt he’d trip a few wards and end up abandoning the idea, it still bothered her that he would be such an ass about it.

However, even his antics couldn’t keep her down for long.

With so many messages coming her way—each first one had a bit of hair tucked into the leaves so that Finley could establish faster communication—it was impossible for the rest of her party to _not_ notice. She’d been a little wary of that, but Blackwall hadn’t seemed to care, Bull was already involved, and Solas had merely mentioned that he’d seen something like that used before, years ago.

Sera was the only one who wasn’t fond of the leaf birds.

It scared Sera a little to see a bird fall apart into a note or a disembodied voice that whispered on the wind, but Finley had explained how the spell worked, making one or two birds herself to flit about and then fall apart. While Sera still didn’t like the way they came undone at the end, she was to the point now where she’d simply point at one and say, “That one ain’t right. One of yours, yeah?”  

And it always was.

Sera had an incredible eye for magic. It made Finley wonder how she was so adept at picking it out—she was far better than any templar Finley had ever run across—but after trying to ask her about it twice only to have Sera get irritated and ask in turn if Finley was accusing her of _having_ magic, Finley let the subject drop.

Solas had noticed Sera’s unusual skill, as well, and had mentioned it quietly to Finley in the evening, the day before. However, he too had to give up on the curiosity of it when Finley assured him that Sera didn’t want to talk about it.

He’d been more enthusiastic since Finley had come to him for help, as well, and it almost seemed as if seeing her use magic put him at ease.

She’d caught him watching her curiously a couple times. While it was strange—they were both mages, after all—he was still himself, so she thought little of it. If he were to be possessed, she would know.

Indeed, everything was pleasant, and the night had been clear, so Finley had taken the opportunity to sleep in one of the nearby trees.

It was a habit she’d taken up as a child—one that had taken more than a bit of practice and ended with more than a few scrapes and bruises. While it wasn’t foolproof, she’d found that if she could hide herself away up high, templars and other unsavory wanderers were less likely to find her.

It also made it easy to spy on trespassers in the Wilds. There’d been more than a dozen times where she’d watched templars wander past her below, none of them ever the wiser that they’d missed a mage.

Seeing as it had been a while since she’d gone to bed in a tree, she nearly fell three times before she found her balance. She’d drifted off wondering how many more rifts were left to be sealed and if Commander Rutherford had ever slept in a tree.

Likely not.

Her dreams had been mercifully empty until the end, too. Just as they began to shift into twisting wretched things that imitated memories of the Conclave, though she doubted she could have seen everyone die as they had—hoped she hadn’t really seen that—a gentle voice called her back into the waking world.

Sitting up, she was a little disoriented at first. However, as Solas said her name again, she glanced down and everything settled back into place.

This time, she was a little surprised that it didn’t hurt as much to wake up in this twisted reality as it usually did. Perhaps it was just that she felt a little less alone every day. Or perhaps it was because she hadn’t been under templar scrutiny in weeks.

She climbed down from her tree with ease, dropping the last few feet to land in front of Solas. Even as she brushed a twig from her shoulder, she met his gaze. “You called for me?”

“Yes.” He smiled and then held out a hand, a small trinket in his palm. It was a tiny thing, easily mistaken for a stone of some sort. “I have a solution to your demon problem.”

Eyes widening, Finley reached out tentatively and plucked the stone from his palm, holding it with great care. It whispered magic, old made new, and she turned it curiously as she inspected the spell. It was expertly done, though she couldn’t quite get a feel for how she might do it herself.

“This will keep the demons at bay?”

“Demons?” Solas blinked, head tilting slightly. “You were just having a problem with one, were you not?”

Finley blinked, looking past the little trinket to the elf. With decent sleep and no templars to glare, she was considerably better about panicking after a slip up. With a shrug, she motioned to the little spell. “I thought, more like than not, the solution would be a generic one.”

“Ah, no.” Solas’ smile returned. “When dealing with the Fade, it is always best to be as specific as one can be.”

That made her cheerful mood waver. If the spell needed specifics, then she wouldn’t be able to just copy it and make sure that _her_ demon wouldn’t be able to hurt people. “So you tailored it to block fear demons or…” She trailed off, trying to think of how one would even make such a spell. When she noticed his brow pinch together, she curled her fingers around the trinket, holding it closer. “I’m sorry. I’ve not had a lot of dealings with demons in dreams or manipulating the Fade. It’s all quite new to me.”

“You needn’t apologize, Finley,” Solas assured her, turning and heading back toward the campfire. “It has been my experience that very few dare tinker with the Fade. People are taught to fear it, and so it is left alone.”

Though she considered that she’d never had any formal type of mage training to do such things, she supposed that seeing what that thing had done to her mother was certainly a type of learning experience. One that had indeed left her afraid of the Fade, namely because of what lurked in it.

The others were still asleep in their tents, with the light of dawn just barely beginning to paint the far horizon. Once she and Solas were seated comfortably—both of them were obviously more at home away from human settlements—he allowed himself a simple smile. “As I have told you, I wander the Fade in my sleep.” When she nodded, he continued, gaze watching their fire flicker before dousing it with a wave of his hand. Finley barely noticed. “I hope you do not think it intrusive, but I followed your dreams to see what was drawn to them.”

Finley paused. Like most mages, she was always at least semi-conscious during her dreams, and very much aware when something was watching her. Yet if Solas had come near, she hadn’t felt a thing. Perhaps it was because he was another mage and not a demon?

“I did not pay attention to your dreams themselves, mind you,” Solas continued, sounding ever so professional. “Merely, I honed in on the essence of your magic and inspected what came near.”

That made her pause again. “And you found a fear demon?”

“I did.” He nodded and pointed toward the stone. “That should keep him at bay, though if you continue to have nightmares, let me know. They may not all be his doing, but it is better to investigate than to underestimate a demon.” He then motioned to a small stone already bound in twine around his wrist. “I will need to guard myself as well, seeing as I do believe I caught his attention with my wards.”

Finley plucked a few taller stalks of weeds growing near their fire pit and with a flick of her wrist, they wound together to form a similar bracelet, the spell he’d made her held tightly in the weave.

He watched her for a moment before tilting his head. “That fear demon is a problem, I do not doubt, but there is another troubling you, isn’t there?”

Finley found it hard to meet his gaze, but when she did, he didn’t seem to hold any lust for power in his eyes. But then, Aubrey hadn’t been like that at first, either.

“I did not meet the creature, but I could feel their essence around you. They have had an interest in you for a long time.”

And there it was. The issue she’d hoped to avoid talking about all together. A part of her wanted to try to make something up. That part whispered that if Solas learned of her demon, he would want to study it or use it or…

Surely, though, someone as knowledgeable as he was about the Fade wouldn’t make such a foolish misstep.

And not all mages were drawn in with that promise of power. Donovan hadn’t been.

If her mental debate showed on her face, Solas made no sign of noticing it, instead waiting patiently for an answer.

“Usually, I am quite good at simply ignoring it. It’s more of a problem when its interest leads it to other people to get to me,” Finley finally confessed. She took in a slow breath, turning her attention toward the sunrise. Already, it didn’t seem as spectacular as she’d been hoping.

“You asked for my help because you want to block that demon from someone else?” Solas surmised easily enough. “Who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

…-…

Two nights later, they had set up camp just off the road beside a small lake, and as the others set up camp, Solas and Finley headed off to gather firewood. As they wound their way through the woods beside the road, Solas paused to inspect a decently sized branch and then hefted it up, settling it into the crook of his other arm with a few others. “I’m afraid I must tell you something you won’t wish to hear about your watcher.”

Finley’s gaze narrowed before he’d finished talking, and she slowed to a stop, appraising him carefully. When he didn’t continue immediately, she shifted her weight. “Well, then?”

Rather than answer, he tilted his head. “You’ve never had much trouble with demons whispering to you, have you?”

“There’s been a few,” Finley murmured, shifting again. She didn’t like where he was going.

“I think this creature has claimed you,” Solas explained carefully. “They likely keep most demons at bay so that you don’t hear them.” Even as Finley’s grip tightened around her sticks, he continued. “I have seen this happen in the past, when a demon wanted a person for themselves, or when a spirit sought to keep a dreamer safe.”

“It’s not a spirit, Solas. Maybe it was a long time ago,” she amended, “but it has caused so much pain, so much damage—”

“I believe you,” he offered, holding up his free hand to stop her before she could argue too far. “I believe that even had their intentions been pure in the beginning, what you have described is the work of a demon, and the essence that lingers in its wake is corrupted. Whether they started off as a misguided spirit or not, I think their purpose has been twisted to the point that they do not remember what they are supposed to be.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “And I think that, based on their behavior, if they go after anyone, they will go after someone important to you. I doubt we need worry over the safety of mages you are unfamiliar with.”

“When I was younger—” Finley cut herself off. She’d told Solas more of her personal demon the night before—that morning they’d been interrupted before she could get far when Sera had woken up and joined them, dismissing the ‘magey’ talk as boring nonsense she couldn’t follow—and had been relieved that he didn’t seem to want to use the demon, _or_ to save it.

She’d cut herself off, however, because he had a point. When she was younger, the demon had possessed a few random mages, but it had steadily moved toward people she’d known, the last two being a lover and a friend.

If that was the progression, it seemed like trying to possess her _might_ be the next step. Maybe it was done with other people…

And even if it wasn’t, she wasn’t in a relationship, and of her friends, there were only four who were close enough who were mages, Solas one of them.

Even as she wondered how she might explain to Dalish, Dorian and Lady Vivienne that they would need to guard against a particular demon—and wondered if they’d even really need to, considering as they _were_ disciplined mages—Solas interrupted her musings with a question that made her heart almost stop.

“Have you tried confronting the creature?”

Staring at Solas, it took her a moment to fully process what he’d said. “It is a demon.”

“A fact we have already established,” Solas replied calmly. “It is also clearly a problem.”

“We would have to go into the Fade to fight it,” Finley asserted. “Into its domain. They are stronger in their domains, and it is plenty strong outside of that.” Before she realized it, she was shaking her head. “I do not like fighting the demons we fight now, the ones mad from the rifts. I don’t want to fight something that has its senses, something that is in its element. That would not be wise. I don’t—”

“Finley,” Solas snapped her name, his eyes wide. She fell silent, trying to fight the urge to run that was bubbling up inside of her. She shouldn’t have told him about the creature. Things were going to get complicated and… “Finley,” he repeated, taking a step toward her. “I think you have built this creature up to have more power than it does. If we faced it, you would see it to be weaker than you fear.”

“I don’t want to face it,” Finley whispered. One of the sticks in her arms snapped. With a jump, she looked down to see that she’d been breaking them as he spoke. “I want it to leave me alone.”

Solas stared at her for a long moment, clearly at a loss for words. Finley tried to keep her breathing even.

“This creature—”

Before he could finish, there was a cacophony of breaking branches and the pounding of plated footsteps heading their way.

Finley had halfway hauled herself onto a tree’s low-hanging branches when the noise came to an abrupt stop. Looking down, she found a man standing not a foot from where she’d just been, metal boots crushing the sticks she’d dropped. He was a giant, easily dwarfing Solas, who had darted back as well and was just letting a thunder spell stall on his fingertips.

Whatever he was, he wasn’t a templar, and that was what had stayed her flight.

The man’s dark hair stuck out wildly from his head, though his beard was well-trimmed—almost as neat as Warden Blackwall’s—and a bright red streak of something ran across his nose, from cheek to cheek.

His gaze darted from Solas and then around until at last he caught sight of Finley’s still dangling foot and raised his gaze to meet hers. The second their eyes met, his brow pinched together and he shook his head, most disapproving. “My sister joined the wardens, and she won’t tell me about the griffons, either!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments! Ya'll make my day <3


	54. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 on tumblr for beta reading for me!

While Varric wasn’t particularly fond of the outdoors, he had to say this this road trip was going well enough. The sun was shining and they were far enough south that it wasn’t burning, they were making great time, and for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t even find it in him to grumble about the outside world being so… _outside_.

There might be remnants of a hole in the sky behind them and a darkspawn magister ready to destroy the world, but all that could be forgotten for at least a little while with his current company.

Honestly, it was a weight off his shoulders.

Before the Inquisition had even made it to Skyhold, he’d had a letter ready to be sent to Hawke. As soon as Stardust had told him the name Corypheus, really. She’d been so tired from having to tell that miserable story over and over, and he hadn’t helped much, with nearly choking on his drink at the name and then asking a bit too quickly for her to repeat it.

Then he’d asked for a description, knowing that while Corypheus wasn’t anywhere near a common name in the south, perhaps it was the Tevinter’s version of John—well, maybe not John. Maybe Gilbert. Something that wasn’t used too often, but you still ran a decent chance of running into more than one in a lifetime.

His hopes had lasted about three seconds.

Namely because that was how long it had taken Stardust to gather herself—she’d visibly paled as she thought back on the creature—and start with, “He was a darkspawn—”

While he supposed Corypheus could have been more of a darkspawn name than a Tevinter one, the fact that he was a sentient darkspawn magister ranting about the Black City pretty much made it impossible for him to lie to himself.

So that night he’d written a frantic letter to Hawke, telling him that they’d failed with Corypheus, and that he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to tell Stardust and the others that the damned thing could die and _still_ come back.

Because that had to have been what happened, right?

After all, Corypheus had been dead. Dead dead.

They’d looted his corpse dead.

And now he was leading an army?

Varric had had the letter written in an hour, and then realized that they didn’t have the resources to send it. Well, Nightingale had a few crows, but she was using them sparingly to get assistance for their little band of dying survivors.

Varric hadn’t known a good way to borrow one of the birds so that he could send for Hawke without it becoming obvious who he was sending for—after all, if the weeks stretched on and he’d claimed to have sent for aide from a carta only to have no word come back, it would have likely made Seeker suspicious.

Anyway, how would Hawke even find them in the middle of the mountains?

So he’d held onto it until they’d reached Skyhold and he could send out multiple letters to connections who would get back to them quickly. With all the letters he was writing, there was less of a worry that anyone would notice whether or not he’d heard back from any specific one.

However, he hadn’t expected Hawke to get back to him quite so fast.

Or that he would show up in person.

After being disappointed that his latest batch of responses were simply assurances from different associates and cartas that help would come or could be negotiated, Varric had settled into penning his life away for another evening, wondering where Hawke had gotten off to and if any of the many, many groups looking for him had finally caught up.

Surely he’d have heard something, if that was the case.

He’d been in the middle of trying to think of a good way to write to Choir Boy—he couldn’t _still_ be mad that Blondie disappeared, after all, seeing as Hawke _had_ put a dagger in the mage’s stomach before that—when a shadow had fallen over his table.

Which hadn’t made any sense because his candle should have been between him and anyone coming up to his table, thus negating any chance for looming shadows to begin with.

As his gaze had left the paper, he’d found the spot where his candle should have been to be empty.

Brow pinching together, he’d looked up higher until he’d found his candle, held precariously behind the owner of the shadow’s head so that the appropriate shadows could be cast.

The second his gaze met that piercing blue one, Varric had been grinning like the fool already grinning down at him.

The great Garrett Hawke.

For all his stupidity, Varric had never been happier to see him. The man was a towering wall of muscle and brawn, just as Varric remembered. He’d looked paler and tanner in one, somehow, like he’d gotten too much sun and not enough sleep. His dark hair was as unkempt as ever, with locks sticking out in every direction in wild little tufts. His beard, however, was well trimmed, and in that instant Varric had wondered if he and Hero would get along or if they’d become rivals over who had the better beard.

Of course he had that streak of red across his nose, as always.

Hawke had dispelled Varric’s awe that he would actually be there, in the flesh, when he let out an abrupt yelp as some of the candle’s wax dripped onto the back of his neck.

Even as he tossed the candle onto the table, Rivani had been there, giggling at his foolishness and wiping the wax away with a gentle touch, her swarthy complexion a nice harmony next to Hawke’s tan. Her clothes were as revealing as ever, her bust comfortable—and barely contained at the same time—in her latest outfit. Her dark hair was a little longer, falling a few inches further over her shoulders and down her back, but she still held it back with that bright blue bandana.

Though it was under an admiral’s hat now.

She gave him a wide grin as he noticed the hat and then tipped it a little, her bracelets and necklaces jingling softly from the movement.

Even as Varric tried to find the words he’d been saving up for the last few months, tried to think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound cheesy or overly emotional or…

Footsteps sounded in one of the nearer halls. Sharp ones.

Hawke’s eyes widened slightly, and then he was pushing Isabela back toward the doorway to the upper courtyard.

One of Hawke’s many, many talents was his ability to identify people by their gaits. He could tell a templar coming from a hundred paces, as well as dozens of other people he’d encountered during his adventures. It was a skill that had always helped him make sure he only ever ran into people he wanted to run into.

Just as Hawke and Rivaini disappeared into the shadows of the foyer, Seeker came storming through, lost in her own thoughts. Hawke had actually still been in Kirkwall when she’d first come looking for him, hence he knew her if only through the way she walked.

Fortunately, Seeker had been concerned with something else, and hadn’t pursued him, even though she’d obviously seen him, or part of him. Varric doubted she’d have been so dismissive if she’d know _who_ she’d watched disappear.

But she hadn’t. And she’d given Varric permission to bring Stardust some horses, which would get Hawke out of Skyhold before anyone could notice him and rope him into something he didn’t want to do.

And anyway, they had a lot of catching up to do, and while a road trip wasn’t an ideal way to do it, it would still be more enjoyable than to try to hide Hawke there in Skyhold.

As soon as Seeker was gone, Hawke had been back. “It’s _her_.”

The words were spoken with a certain level of dismay that made it hard for Varric not to cackle. “It is.”

“Is she in charge? I heard there was a seeker running things.” Hawke had rubbed at his beard as he’d stared at the door leading to the rotunda, where Seeker had disappeared not a minute before. “Perhaps I should try to win her over now. Never known a lady who could resist my smile.”

“Well, _I’ve_ known plenty who could, and that one would probably just stab you,” Varric had retorted, and then shaken his head. “Where’s Rivaini?”  

“Headed to the kitchens,” Hawke had shrugged, slouching down onto a rickety bench across from Varric. It wobbled a little under him, but he didn’t seem to notice. “We were actually on our way to meet a friend out here in regards to some other issues when we got your letter. The detour left our food stocks a bit low.” He’d hesitated, his lips dipping into a frown. “Actually, there was an…incident, and the short of it is that we tried to take a shortcut and after we outran the bear, all we had left was a cheese wheel that we were going to use to bribe my friend into telling us things.”

“Let me guess, you ate it?”

“It may be hard to bribe someone without the bribe, but it’s even harder to bribe them if you’re dead.” He’d shrugged his arms out, palms up and the candlelight glinting off his well-defined muscles. “Please tell me there are more cheese wheels here.”

“The only way you can persuade this friend is with cheese?”

With a scoff, Hawke had shaken his head, shaggy hair bobbing a bit from the motion. “I’m sure there are other ways. Cheese just happens to be the cheapest and easiest of them.”

“Especially when you steal it.”    

At that, Hawke had simply shrugged. Before he could come up with some quip to dismiss the theft that was no doubt happening in the kitchens as they spoke, Varric held out a hand, as though he could stay the action himself. “Come with me to deliver the horses, and I’ll see to it that we have at least two cheese wheels in our rations for you to make off with when we’re done.”

“I gathered I’d be your muscle when you were talking to the angry one. Bit risky to assume that I’d drop everything to go on your quest, though.”

Varric had laughed at that. “That you’re already here means you already did.”

His characteristic grin returning full force, Hawke had leaned across the table, slapped Varric on the shoulder, and nodded. “I’ve missed you, Varric.”

At that, Varric had given him a smirk and a shrug. “How could you not?”

With that, they’d split up to gather resources—well, Hawke had gone to find Rivaini and let her know thievery would be unnecessary while Varric went about recruiting the rest of their group.

Varric had made up the part about Sparkler wanting to come with them, but the truth was he’d heard more than a few people talking about their mistrust for the ‘magister vint’. Apparently there was a need for clarification, since Tiny had that other vint in his band, and people liked him considerably more than Sparkler.

He’d figured that Sparkler might want to get away from the whispers, if only for a while. As he’d headed up toward the library part of the tower, he’d found that he’d had a better feel for the situation than he’d realized.

“Andraste’s flaming tits, but if you put the Compendium of Subtle Combustibles beside the History of Necromantic Puppetry, I will toss you over that rail.”

A monotone voice argued back. “They were authored by the same mage.”

“Which is well and good, but we are going to organize this section based on the principle schools of magic so that they are most easily accessible to those who require reading in their—”

“No. Your method is inconsistent with the Circles.”

“My method is _better_ than the Circles’!”

Sparkled had quipped at the tranquil as Varric had come up the steps, though there had been a slight waver to his voice.  When Varric had a clear view of him, he could see the way Sparkler had angled himself away from the tranquil and the way he seemed to cringe every time the man spoke in that lifeless tone.

Standing a bit straighter, Sparkler had tried to muster his usual gusto. “The fact that your Circles fell should be proof enough that they were flawed and—Varric. Thank the Maker. I could use the company of someone who actually listens to reason.”

Even as he glanced back at the tranquil as though to make sure the man understood that jab had been meant for him, the tranquil simply set the book they’d been arguing over on the shelf and walked away. Sparkler’s eye twitched.

“It is like talking to a wall,” he’d muttered, fighting back a shiver.

“Not many tranquil in Tevinter, I take it?”

“We have better ways of dealing with mages who can’t control themselves,” Sparkler had muttered and then pointedly turned back to him. “I take it you require assistance? If you are looking for particular reading, I would happily direct you to what little is where it should be.”

“Actually…”  

When Varric asked if he’d help with bringing out the horses, Sparkler had let out such a loud, “Maker’s balls, yes!” that Varric had half expected to look up to see Nightingale and Seeker peering down at them, disapproving frowns in place.

To save himself that horror, he hadn’t looked up.

Then, even as Sparkler had started a rant about how the south didn’t know how to organize books to save their lives and it was no wonder the whole place was so backwards, there had been a blonde boy there, whose mere appearance had made Sparkler jump and curse in his native tongue.

Which was odd, because the kid _had_ to have come up from behind Varric, so Sparkler _had_ to have seen him coming.

The kid hadn’t seemed to even notice Varric, instead peering at Sparkler through shaggy blonde hair, saying, “I have to go help the good templars.”

“Why are you telling me?” Sparkler had snapped in response, his breathing still evening out from the boy’s initial appearance.

“Finley and Solas are gone, and no one else knows to miss me if I disappear.” The boy’s eyes had unfocused, and then he’d blinked and nodded. “You can let them know when you see them. I will be back. There’s a lot to help with here.”

Sparkler had eyed him a moment before nodding. “Do have fun, then.”

“Silent sulking shadow dismissing itself from the obligations it promised to uphold. Hardly a wonder. Nothing for it to take here, nothing for it to—” The boy had twisted his fingers together, wringing his hands slowly as he glanced around. “I’m not breaking my promise. I wasn’t going to go. I was going to stay to help keep _her_ at bay, but Solas left a warning for her, and I think she’ll behave for now.” He hesitated, frowning. “I don’t like her. She hurts people to get what she wants, but I can’t find my way back to where she is, so all I can do is react, which is hard because she’s so sneaky. _She_ watches for me just as I watch for her.”

Varric had knit his brow together, trying to think of any person he’d seen in Skyhold who might fit that description. Even as his mind had gone to Nightingale, the boy had turned to him for the first time and shaken his head. “No. Well, yes. But no. She hurts people, but not like this.”

“Who’s hurting people?”

The kid had seemed familiar, though Varric couldn’t quite place where he’d seen him before. To add to the bizarreness of it all, through the whole conversation, Sparkler never once took his eyes off of the kid, even when Varric was the one talking, as though he thought the boy might…turn into a monster or something if he let his guard down for even a second.

“I…it’s alright. Solas can handle her better than I can. I can’t go back, but he can. And he does. Often. He knows to keep watch now, too, so it will be alright. I will be more help to the templars, for now.”

“Help them with what?” Varric had asked, shaking his head. The kid was hard to follow at best, though Varric had a feeling if he could sit him down and ask a few questions, he might be able to figure out exactly what was going on.

“Finley should know…needs to, I mean,” the kid had offered, holding out an unmarked envelope. “I wrote her a letter. I think it will make sense.”

And then the boy had been gone, and Varric had wondered how exactly he’d done that.

And then he’d found a letter in his hands, and for a second he couldn’t remember how _that_ had gotten there. It had come back to him quickly, however, and he’d wondered if he could be going senile already.

Looking up at Sparkler, Varric had pointed over his shoulder, wondering if that was even the direction the kid had disappeared in. “That boy…”

“You’ll have to talk to Finley about him. I know I will be,” Sparkler had muttered. “You said we’re leaving soon, yes? I’ll gather my things.”

The last person he’d recruited had been Reinald, though truth be told, the mage had recruited himself. Varric had planned on asking another mage or two to come with them, namely to help the mages get out there and show people that they _were_ helping. While the mages had been assisting with the cleanup of Skyhold, word of their deeds wasn’t getting very far, and Varric suspected it was because they were mostly sticking to themselves, waiting for the rest of their band to show up.

Getting them out in the world would help, make them more of a common occurrence.

Or, that had been his main thoughts when he’d pitched his party suggestion to Seeker. His other thought had been that Hawke would probably want to ask the mages a few questions about if they’d seen certain people, and how things were going. Even if his sister was safe in the wardens, Hawke was still very much an advocate of Mage Rights.

…And part of Varric had just wanted to see Seeker frown at the thought of mages wandering freely into the world since she did seem to be one of the many who seemed to feel that to be ‘dangerous’.

Honestly, Varric thought most mages seemed to turn to the more dangerous aspects of magic when they were kept locked up, but what proof did _he_ have other than watching the same shit happen for years and years?

That was an argument he’d have to have with Curly sometime, just to see if the ex-templar’s views had changed at all, especially with his apparent fondness for their Herald…

Tormenting Curly aside, he’d been on his way to find a few mages to recruit when Reinald had caught up to him and offered to join their party, stating he had important news to discuss with Stardust.

And so the five of them had gathered their belongings and enough horses to bring for Herald Finley’s group—as well as the largest horse they could find for Tiny.

And then they’d been off.

Varric was still trying to come up with a nickname for Reinald, and had spent most of the trip mulling it over. Quiet, Thoughtful, and Butterfly—as in the social type, of course—were on the table at the moment. It wasn’t that the mage didn’t talk—he did—but rather that he had to be prompted to. He most willingly spoke with Dorian, but seemed a little wary of Rivaini and Hawke, especially when Hawke talked about helping mages. It was like Reinald expected it to be lies, though he never outright said anything to that mind.

He was neutral toward Varric.

He did warm up a little when Hawke began regaling the group with stories of his childhood and both his father’s and Sunshine’s mishaps with magic. Further tales of Daisy and Blondie helped even more, though stories about Blondie tended to set Varric in a foul mood.

At least Hawke was careful not to make it clear that Blondie was the one who’d blown up Kirkwall. Varric wondered if Reinald would have been more or less receptive to those stories if he’d known.

Reinald had finally gotten to the point where he was telling a few lighthearted Circle stories—spells going awry that had Dorian cackling and telling his own Tevinter tales—when Hawke abruptly pulled his horse to a stop.

He’d been casually surveying their surroundings, allowing himself to enjoy the scenery, or so Varric had thought, when he suddenly perked up. “You said the Herald was a redhead?”

“Yeah—”

With that, Hawke vaulted off his horse and barreled into the woods. As Dorian and Reinald exchanged a confused look, Rivaini let out a sharp laugh and hopped off her own steed, calling for the mages to keep an eye on the horses and that they’d only be a moment or two. She paused to give Varric a pointed ‘you’re coming, right?’ look before focusing on catching up with her lover.

Varric, however, barely caught that look. As soon as Hawke had dismounted, he’d looked ahead to see what was in the woods. As Hawke had been obscured by leafy shadows, he’d seen a bright flash of orange just a little further in and heard the crackle of magic.

If the ground had opened up to swallow him right then and there, he wasn’t sure he would fight it.

There were so many things he’d meant to warn Hawke about when it came to Stardust.

He _had_ told Hawke she was a bit timid around new people, that she scared easily, but he hadn’t really stressed it. He’d assumed they were still a few days from running into the other party, and had figured he’d have time to pull Hawke aside and really press the point home.

Somehow, he managed to fall off his own horse without breaking anything and pursued that unbelievable idiot, ignoring as Sparkler and Reinald called after him worriedly. He didn’t have to run far before he could see Chuckles ready to attack and Stardust half up a tree, eyes wide like a cornered animal’s.

As Varric cleared his throat to try to mitigate the situation, Hawke bellowed, “My sister joined the wardens, and she won’t tell me about the griffons, either!”

Dammit. Varric had mentioned that Stardust liked the wardens and griffons during one of their few non-magical conversations, hadn’t he?

Had Hawke really thought that was all it would take to get on her good side?

Had he missed the timid and skittish warnings _completely_?

Even the birds and all those annoying insects that were always everywhere in the ‘great’ outdoors didn’t seem to know how to respond to his declaration.

Truly, the entire forest was deathly silent.

In the least, Chuckles caught sight of Varric and allowed his lightning spell to dissipate.

Stardust, though…she stared down at Hawke, unblinking, unmoving—Ancestors, was she even breathing?

Then, slowly, so painfully slowly, she pulled her dangling leg up to her and perched on the branch she’d been hauling herself onto, crossed her legs, and angled as though she might leap up toward a higher branch if anyone dared a step closer. “Griffons.”

Her voice sounded a little hollow.

“They’re great, right?” Hawke nodded toward her, hands on his hips. “I asked my sister if I could get one, but she just glared. Said they don’t exist anymore. Damned shame.”

At that, Stardust gave a little nod. “People should have taken better care of them.”

She was still incredibly pale, making her freckles stand out like miniature constellations painted onto her skin. And she was _so_ still… That wasn’t like her at all. Her head turned slightly to survey the situation, to see that Chuckles was intact and then around the rest of the clearing. Her gaze stopped when she saw Varric. Something about it was…off.

“You…know this man?” Her voice made him shiver. It sounded wrong somehow, even though he knew it was her.

Hawke strode over, grabbed the branch and hauled himself up so that he was sitting beside Stardust, ignoring the way the tree let out an audible groan at the added weight of a fully armored man. With a quick, awkward bow that left the tree branch shuddering—somehow Stardust didn’t seem affected by all the movement—Hawke motioned to himself. “Garrett Hawke. Some call me the Champion of Kirkwall. Mostly, it’s facetious these days. Ingrates.” He trailed off, leaning forward to inspect Stardust more carefully.

Then he poked her shoulder, and Varric just about had a heart attack as her arm fell off.

And turned into leaves.

“Garrett Hawke.”

Stardust’s voice came from behind Varric, and he whirled around to see her leaning against a tree behind him, a frown well in place. Unlike the…illusion or whatever it was on the branch, her chest was rising and falling as though she was struggling to overcome a panic attack—and succeeding for once. When she looked down at Varric, there was a sharpness to that eerie fire in her eyes that he was so used to. “ _The_ Garrett Hawke?”

When Varric glanced back at Hawke, he did so in time to see the rest of the Finley double collapse into leaves and couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that washed over him. He’d been able to tell it was off, but it had still looked so much like…her. He felt like he’d just seen her fall to pieces in the most literal sense, and he wished very much that he could unsee it.

“That’s…quite a trick, Stardust. Could use a bit of a warning next time, though,” Varric murmured, trying to crack a smile when he looked back at her.

She didn’t smile back. “I would like a bit of a warning next time, too.”

“Sorry about that,” Hawke offered, trotting back to them. He stopped when he was beside Varric, just as tension rippled through Stardust, like she might climb another tree. “Don’t blame Varric, though. He said some things. I didn’t listen.”

“He never does,” Rivaini offered, sidling up beside Stardust.

As she spoke, Rivaini reached out to poke her shoulder, looking almost disappointed when the mage merely turned a critical stare toward her and said, “Don’t.”

“You’re the real one, then?” Rivaini asked, head tilting to one side.

Stardust didn’t answer, instead allowing her breathing to even a little more before finally reaching up and tugging her braid over her shoulder. Her fingers made quick work to unplait it. As she began to redo it, her gaze flashed over the lot of them again, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she glanced toward the road. “You’re not traveling with templars?”

“Not if we can help it, sweet thing,” Rivaini offered.

Before she could say more, Hawke swore, “ _Shit_! I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking. You’re probably used to having to run when you hear plate, huh?” When Stardust didn’t answer, he motioned to himself. “When I was younger, we had to listen for that stuff, too. My dad trained us what to do if we stumbled across templars, so that we wouldn’t make them suspicious or accidentally lead them back to him or my sister, Beth.”

“The grey warden?”

“Yeah,” Hawke nodded, though he was clearly more concerned than enthusiastic. “I’m…really, really sorry about scaring you.”

“Finley,” Chuckles called out, drawing attention to himself for the first time. Ancestors, but Varric had almost forgotten he was there. With that leaf version of Stardust, he was still rattled, and he jumped at the word. Too many voices were coming from behind him.

As Varric wrestled with his own erratic heart rate, Stardust turned her attention to Chuckles. Varric almost missed that her mood didn’t seem to lighten as she looked to her fellow mage. Almost.

“I’ll get this wood to camp and let them know we’ll have company.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and hurried off through the woods with an eerie grace and quietness. It reminded Varric of how quiet predators could be.

Well, predators and apostates.

“You must be…Rivaini?” Stardust asked, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders as she turned to appraise the pirate beside her.

“Only Varric calls me that,” she laughed and held her hand out. “Isabela is fine.”

“Finley,” she replied after a moment’s pause. Another second or two passed before she clasped the hand extended to her. Rivaini grinned at that.

“Yep, definitely the real one.”

Stardust’s brow pinched together at that, and she withdrew her hand. Swallowing, she glanced over the three of them again before settling on Varric. Though she opened her mouth to say something, she seemed to think better of it and closed it without saying anything.

Hawke fidgeted a little before finally shrugging. “We brought you horses.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments! Ya'll make my day <3


	55. Witches and Mages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 0wallie0 for beta reading this chapter <3

“You know, I think everyone can tell you don’t want to be here,” Garrett began, drawing the attention of their entire party. Not that it was hard. Personality aside, Dorian had to admit that he preferred eyeing the wall of a man to staring out across the water at Kinloch Hold. Not that such a comparison set the bar terribly high. He’d barely been in those halls a week, and he had no desire to go back.

Yes, Hawke was indeed a welcome distraction, especially to their dear Herald, to whom he had been speaking.

As soon as they’d crested that first hill that gave them a clear view of Kinloch Hold’s great tower sticking up over the lake like a spear into the heavens, Finley had begun to pale. The closer they drew to it, the paler she became, and now that they stood just shy of the docks, she looked like something Dorian might raise back from the dead.

Indeed, she seemed most distraught by the mere sight of it, though when Reinald had asked if she was alright, she’d simply shrugged and fallen back into her own thoughts.

She’d been like that for most of the trip, since Dorian and the others had met with them. Bull had offhandedly commented that she was in rather good spirits until they showed up, and so Dorian had initially suspected she’d been frightened by Garrett Hawke’s antics.

Now, however…

When Varric had returned to the horses with the others in tow, Dorian and Reinald had been thrilled to see Finley with them, though her mood had been such a wretched thing. She’d barely given them a nod as she and the others come up to the horses, and Garrett had been apologizing _profusely_.

Seeing how boisterous the warrior could be, it had been easy enough to imagine what might have happened—and Dorian’s suspicions had been rather accurate when Isabela regaled them later with that little misadventure.

It hadn’t helped Finley’s mood when she’d tried to ride one of the horses only to nearly fall off it. The horse itself didn’t seem to give her trouble, but somehow the saddle was to be her undoing.

She’d ended up riding with Dorian—she nearly brought them both off the horse thrice—and her countenance had only gotten grimmer when Reinald explained that he was there because the Grand Enchanter wanted to meet with Finley in person, if she could.

Reinald had seemed concerned that perhaps he was somehow part of the offending party, seeming to grow more and more polite as Finley maintained a rather murky outlook, but Dorian had a feeling it was something more. Something they’d missed.

Something everyone had missed, apparently.

That annoyingly energetic elf, Sera, had spent most of the trip accusing _every_ member of Dorian’s party of having done _something_ to upset Finley.

If anyone had done anything, however, Dorian was of a mind that it was Solas as the culprit, as he’d been with her just before the parties had merged.

Further, it could be argued that Finley was _avoiding_ Solas. It was subtle, but she seemed to find a reason to not sit near him or to have to pick up her pace if he tried to talk to her. He’d only attempted to speak with her once before picking up on her aversion to him. After that, he gave her her space, though he did seem to spend a good deal of time studying her while she was lost to thought or listening to Garrett or Reinald talk.

Though it could have been in Dorian’s head, to be quite frank. They _did_ have a rather large party, so it wasn’t like she was sitting beside most of them.

Sera was the one who’d first put it in Dorian’s head, sitting by their fire the night before and asking if Dorian knew what had happened. When he shrugged, she’d scowled at him and muttered something about useless mages.

Dorian had made a quip about useless southerners, and Sera had stuck her tongue out at him before heading off to try to cheer up their Herald, regaling her and everyone in earshot with some bawdry tale that would barely be acceptable in a lowbrow tavern.

Soon that had devolved into Bull, Isabela, Garrett, and even Reinald attempting to outdo their dear elven archer with raunchy tales that would bring a red dusting to even the most tempered Chantry sister’s cheeks.

While Reinald had been quiet on first half of their merry little trip, the second they’d found Finley, he’d burst to life, explaining plans and all manner of things, never giving the poor Herald a moment’s peace.

She had agreed to go to Kinloch Hold with little persuasion, though each day that brought them closer seemed to drain some of the life from her.

Dorian couldn’t help but feel that if her dour demeanor was not due to any present company, it was because of that towering edifice in the center of the lake. Perhaps she’d been rattled by Garrett’s initial introduction, only to have this weight settle over her before she could properly recover, making it seem like she was fretting over one thing when it was more.

He knew she was a ‘woodlands apostate’, but there was clearly some sort of bad blood between her and the Circles. When they’d first arrived at the little tavern near the docks, Garrett had been surprisingly soft-spoken, assuring her that whatever her experiences were with the Circle, they’d keep her safe now.

She’d been staring at that ominous tower when he’d interrupted her thoughts and had blinked at him, seeming to come out of a daze. Then, her gaze had flitted back toward the Circle, and she’d shaken her head. “The templars decided I wouldn’t be a good fit for a Circle.”

Dorian had wanted to jump in at that, noting how Garrett had seemed to want to ask more about how the templars could have made such a decision, but in the end, neither of them had voiced their curiosity.

She had avoided Garrett’s gaze after saying that, instead going back to leading her horse over to where the others had already taken theirs to tie them off. When she had been a bit lost at how to deal with the reins, Warden Blackwall had come to the rescue.

Of everyone, Dorian, Solas, and Warden Blackwall were the only three overly accustomed to riding. Despite her initial troubles with her steed, Finley had actually gotten the hang of riding a bit faster than some of their companions. After taking an hour to figure out the saddle—a part that no one else had trouble with—she’d had her beast moving without using the reins once.

Dorian was fairly certain she never tied hers off, either.

Varric had called her an animal whisperer once or twice, but this seemed a bit excessive.

If she was using magic though—she had to be—he couldn’t feel it.

Garrett rolled one shoulder and then the other as he continued his offer to their dear Herald, and drew Dorian—and no doubt a few others—out of their thoughts. “We can grab the horses and ride off into the sunset. You can come with me to meet my grey warden contact in Crestwood.”

Maker’s ass, but she looked like she might take him up on that offer. The lady _was_ fond of her wardens.

Their resident warden, however, did not seem to like the prospect. Shifting his weight, Warden Blackwall motioned across the way. “We’re already here. Might as well meet with the Grand Enchantress.”

“Grand Enchanter,” Reinald corrected almost automatically.

“Apologies,” Warden Blackwall murmured, never taking his eyes off Finley. As Garrett had said, _everyone_ could tell she didn’t want to be there. “My point stands. We’re already here.”

Finley took in a slow breath, nodding. “I would rather not have to come back here a second time.”

Her voice wavered in such a way that Dorian couldn’t help but wonder at that. The Rebel mages hadn’t wanted to go to the Circle, either, but it had been more out of irritation that they would have to hole up somewhere they’d fought so hard to be free of rather than any actual _fear_.

Finley, though, was honestly terrified of the Circle.

Even as Dorian tried to think of something witty to say to set her at ease, the door to the inn behind them slammed. As Dorian glanced over his shoulder, Sera was already back to their group, loud voice chasing off the quiet.

“I got us some rooms, yeah?” Sera interrupted, abruptly tumbling to a stop beside Finley. “Figure your bum’s gotta be a bit raw from all that riding. Mine’s aching like it’s got its own Breach.” At that, she paused, smirking. “A Breach in my breeches. Not that that’d be much fun. Whatever. You can go upstairs for a bit. Relax in a tub, slosh in the water. Not see that eyesore.” Even as she spoke, Sera let her gaze dart toward the Circle. Like Finley, she looked like she wanted to be as far from that building as possible. “Shite. How’s that place not a friggin’ rift? I’ve got prickles all over just looking at it.”

“The Veil _is_ very thin,” Finley murmured, and Dorian could have sworn he saw her shudder. “We’ll stay on this side of the water.”

“Smart call, that,” Sera nodded approvingly. “Anyway. Like I said, got us rooms. If you want, I got some thread for your sleeve. Them proper gits always gotta bitch about stuff well-worn. And you know anyone with ‘grand’ in their title is gonna be a gi—”

“This side of the water,” Reinald echoed, speaking over Sera. While she looked annoyed to have been interrupted, she simply crossed her arms and glared, standing beside Finley as though in solidarity of some kind. “Grand Enchanter Fiona will be quite hospitable, and you needn’t waste money on rooms here when an hour’s boat ride will take us—”

“No.” Finley shook her head.

“Herald, I don’t think you understand—”

“Enough.” Finley stopped him, and he paused mid turn. Her gaze darted from him to the Circle and back. “I’m not going out there.” She hesitated before adding, “And it’s Finley, not Herald.”

“We…” Reinald straightened up a little bit, motioning toward the ancient tower. “We came here to speak with the Grand Enchanter.”

At that, Finley turned and walked a few feet away from the docks until she came to some underbrush that was far enough from the road it hadn’t been cut back. Reaching out to a small bush, Finley gathered a few leaves and wound them together, cupping her hands around them and whispering something to it. When she opened her hands, a little bird flitted off, shooting above the water toward the tower.

Tugging on one of her sleeves, Finley motioned after the bird. “She’ll know we’re here.”

“Well, there’s not much arguing with that, is there?” Dorian offered, walking over to Finley and Sera and rocking from his heels to toes and back. “I don’t suppose you got enough rooms for all of us.”

“’Course I did,” Sera muttered.

Dorian scoffed, inspecting the little elf with a critical eye. When she rolled her eyes toward him, he arched his brow. “Forgive me, but were you talking about sewing earlier? I have a hard time imagining you to be a seamstress.”

“I’m not,” Sera snapped back. “Fin’s not half bad with her stitches, though. Sewed up my sleeve the other day.”

Finley stood there a moment before her shoulders slumped a little. “That was Solas.”

Sera was in the middle of proudly proclaiming Finley to be adept with all kinds of skills, when her head snapped toward her. “What?”

“I…tend to use a bit more thread that should be necessary when I try to fix things, so normally I just…don’t.” As Finley hesitated, Dorian inspected the different tatters and tears in her coat and found that he believed her instantly. Maker, but did she have to fit the homeless apostate so well? She and Solas were a pair, even if she was avoiding him at the moment. “But I wanted to help you, and Solas saw that I wasn’t doing well and…helped.” 

Dorian cocked his head. “This must have been a while ago.”

At that, Finley furrowed her brow. “A few days before you joined us. Why?”

Rather than nettle at what might be a prickly issue, he instead shrugged. “You go to bed as soon as we make camp after a day’s ride, so I didn’t see you’d have the time recently.”

“Hera—Finley,” Reinald started, clearly trying to pick his words with care. “We really should go to the Circle. As I said, it takes maybe an hour by boat and—”

“No.”

“You’re making the Grand Enchanter _herself_ wait.”

“And?” Sera snapped, hopping into the argument to defend Finley. “That place ain’t right. And for those who need _titles_ ,” there was clear venom behind that word, “Fin’s the Inquisitor. And even if she wasn’t, I’d bet _Herald of Andraste_ beats Grand Enchanter.” Even as Finley took in a breath, Sera rolled her eyes again. “Right, so it’s not official. But you’ve already said yes, so—”

“ _You’re_ the inquisitor,” Reinald interrupted, seemingly having forgotten his earlier grievance with making the grand enchanter cater to them. “I thought…rumor is that it’s Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Piss on that,” Sera hissed.

“Cassandra did say she’d handle things while I was gone,” Finley offered, shifting a little. For the first time since they’d spotted the Circle, some of her color was back. “I hadn’t really thought it would cause problems.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Dorian sighed, crossing his arms as he looked her over with a renewed critical eye. “You really have no clue about politics, do you?” When Finley looked confused, he rolled his eyes. “You have to declare yourself the leader before you leave someone to rule in your stead.”

“She’s not ruling—” Finley let out a soft huff before giving up. “Honestly, when I left, I thought they might decide I’m not fit to be Inquisitor.” Her hand flitted to her coat’s breast pocket and Dorian caught the edge of what looked like a wrinkled envelope, as though she were touching it for reassurance. “I received word that that’s not what happened. They’re waiting for me to return to declare me Inquisitor.”

“What? Really? When’d you here that?” Sera asked, peering around at the envelope as well as it disappeared back into Finley’s pocket and her hand fell away.

“Varric brought word.”

At that, Dorian narrowed his eyes. “From Cole?”

“From Cole.”

“Who’s that?” Sera asked, brow pinching together.

“He’s…help,” Finley murmured. Even as Sera looked ready to ask more questions, Finley looped arms with her. “How about you show us to those rooms? I think I could wash up a bit, at least.”

“I can try to sew your shirt, if you want,” Sera offered, swinging around to walk with Finley. “I ain’t great at it, but I can probably make it hold for long enough to meet with all the important people.”

“I can fix it,” Garrett offered, darting after them with a surprising litheness for someone so large. “Used to sew up me ‘n Beth’s stuff in Kirkwall. Got decent with my needlework, too.”

“It’s true,” Isabela offered, looping an arm with his as the two followed Sera and Finley toward the inn. “He can even make those pretty little flower patterns with the hems.”

“Not that you ever let me,” Garrett muttered, his voice already fainter as the space between them and Dorian stretched. The other members of their party were slowly turning away from the Circle tower to head in as well, trailing after the others.

Isabela laughed as they reached the door, “Come now, love. Flowers on a pirate admiral?”

“I think you’d look lovely.”

As they disappeared into the inn, Dorian let out a sigh. Of everyone, only he and Reinald remained. As he turned, he frowned when he realized that Reinald was standing there as though frozen. Arching a brow, Dorian waved his hand in front of the man’s face, and rather abruptly, a large smile split his lips.

“The Inquisitor is a mage.”

…-…

The next three hours passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. Sera had gotten them three rooms, with Isabela ushering Finley into one to prepare. Sera and Garrett had followed, despite several of their party wondering if it would be appropriate for a man to be in there while their renowned Herald was changing and the like—Varric had assured them that he was fairly certain Garrett had adopted Finley as his new little sister and that everything would be fine, which had stemmed that debate before it could truly start.

That left the rest of them to split into the other two rooms, though the whole lot of them convened in the middle room that Bull had claimed first and foremost while they waited to hear back from the mages across the lake.

There’d been a little bit of a scene when Finley had first walked in, with murmurs and gasps from a few locals. While Dorian was used to seeing people become awestruck by their dear Herald, some of the older people here seemed more skeptical than most, and he caught an old woman whispering to who he presumed to be her husband that she wondered if Finley’s eyes weren’t just some spell.

“Mages can do that, you know. Change things.”

That’s what she’d said with a sage nod, and Dorian had been tempted to use an old spell he and Felix had made years ago to make the woman’s hair turn pink.

He decided against it when he realized that that would just prove her point.

It did, however, make sense to him that people who lived closer to one of the towers would be more acquainted with what magic could do.

He hoped it wouldn’t pose a problem.

While Finley and her ‘helpers’ had stayed upstairs, Dorian and Reinald had tried to settle down in the downstairs dining area so as to keep an eye out for the Grand Enchanter. In the end, however, there had been so many frightened glances that Dorian had finally gotten bored and gone back upstairs, with Reinald in tow. Reinald had seemed more worried by the locals’ attitudes than Dorian was. After all, he was used to being stared at for not fitting in.

Truly, the life of a pariah prepared one for all kinds of predicaments.

Prepared as he might have been, it had still been considerably less annoying to lounge about upstairs, away from prying eyes. Finley’s group hadn’t been taking too long, considering how long Dorian’s parents took to prepare for parties and the like, but it still felt like it stretched on, perhaps because of the anticipation for the upcoming rendezvous. Garrett emerged once to steal some of Varric’s clothes for tailoring needs. The dwarf had grumbled, but acquiesced the fool’s request for one of his extra shirts.  

As he’d disappeared, Dorian had wondered just how a single shirt—that didn’t even match their dear Herald’s clothes—could save her wreck of an outfit. The more he thought of it, the more it hit him that she was going to have quite the uphill battle to be a presentable leader.

When she finally emerged from the other room to rejoin the rest of them, Dorian had to say that if Garrett had had a few more hours to work with her, she might have look respectable. As it was, so long as one just looked at her from the waist up—Garrett had adjusted the seams and hems of Varric’s shirt to fit her quite well, though her pants and boots were still threadbare and worn—she didn’t look half bad.

For an audience with half starved, terrified mages.

Still, skittishness aside, she would need to work on her appearance a great deal if she was to be taken seriously in noble circles.

Good thing there was Lady Montilyet. Dorian still couldn’t figure out exactly what counted as fashion down here in the south. Though, he could guess tangled hair and split seams were out.

Truly, Lady Montilyet would have her work cut out for her.

Though, she was far enough removed from politics that it might not be an immediate death sentence… Honestly, the Orlesians would probably find her to be a mystery that warranted observation and speculation.

They did so enjoy thinking themselves better than others that a noble or two might even take her under their wing.

Dorian’s musings were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. They’d left it open, and as all eyes turned toward it, the inn keeper shuffled her feet a little and then nodded with her head toward the stairs. “There’s mages here to see you, Lady Herald.”

The title had been added on as though she weren’t completely sure she believed the title herself, but before Dorian or anyone else could really consider it, she’d disappeared back down the hall.

Bull was the first out of his seat, settling his axe onto his back as he started toward the door. Reinald let out a worried laugh at that. “Do we really need our weapons?”

“There’s almost a dozen armed men and women down there, sitting around the tavern. I’d rather not find out they’re all mercenaries with my axe up here.” And with that he stepped into the hall, though he waited until Finley and Sera joined him to start walking.

The rest of them followed quickly, with Blackwall and Solas taking up the rear. None of them spoke, save for Sera and Finley, though she did drop back to walk closer to Dorian and Reinald.

As they descended the stairs, Dorian wasn’t sure if he was relieved or concerned to see that quite a few of the non-magically inclined patrons had disappeared. Perhaps they feared the establishment might go up in flames with so many mages inside.

Speaking of, Grand Enchanter Fiona and her small entourage—there were four mages with her—had taken a seat at a long table tucked into the corner of the room that was directly across from the door. A quick escape route, perhaps? As Finley and the others approached, the mages rose and Grand Enchanter Fiona moved around the table to meet them, a welcoming smile in place.

Like Finley, it was clear that she’d made an attempt to make herself as presentable as possible, though she’d been considerably more successful. Her short, dark hair was neat and shone softly in the dim light. Her tawny complexion seemed to glimmer in the candlelight as well, and her robes were neat and freshly pressed. She looked like a queen beside Finley, and her smile was radiant as she dipped into a proper bow that Finley awkwardly mimicked.

Two of the mages behind her were not particularly versed in hiding their distaste at having been drawn out of the tower, and Dorian could see the critical looks they gave the dear Herald as they watched her every blunder.

“My, my, but you do have quite the impressive entourage.” The Grand Enchanter nodded to Finley, Reinald, and then Dorian in turn before motioning for Finley to have a seat across from her at the table she and her mages had taken.

Finley sat across from the grand enchanter as she took her place, leaving the others to fall into place around them. Sera plopped down in one of the seats directly beside Finley, and Dorian took the other, with Solas to his left and Blackwall to Sera’s right. Isabela and Varric pulled up chairs at one end of the table while Garrett opted to stand, resting against Isabela’s chair in what Dorian couldn’t decide to be a friendly or intimidating manner. It could go either way, he supposed.

Bull didn’t bother to sit, either, and instead leaned against one of the building’s support columns, and Reinald rejoined his fellow Rebel mages on the far side of the table, sitting across from Dorian.

“It’s nice to meet you in person,” Finley offered with a short nod, once they were all in place.

“And you as well, Herald Finley.”

“She’s to be Inquisitor,” Reinald murmured as soon as his leader was done talking.

The way the grand enchanter’s eyes glimmered at that was most telling. “This is true?” When Finley nodded—Maker, she was trying not to look awkward, and failing so miserably that it was almost painful to watch—Grand Enchanter Fiona’s skin crinkled around her eyes. “I am glad to hear it.”

Those two mages didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic.

As a few other introductions were had and pleasantries exchanged, Finley started drumming her fingers quietly against the table, and Dorian found himself wanting very much to reach out and stop her, though he knew that would look rather dismal for her authority to have an underling schooling her habits in public.

“Shall we get down to business?” Grand Enchanter Fiona asked, head tilting slightly. When Finley nodded, the elf’s smile faltered. How she was able to pretend not to notice how fidgety the apostate across from her was baffled Dorian. Perhaps her desperation made her tolerate such eccentricities more than one might usually. “There is talk that the Inquisition will not be open to mages offering assistance.”

Abruptly, Finley’s fingers drummed down at once, and she frowned. “What?”

“It would seem that more and more templars are heading to bolster your ranks, leaving less and less room for mages to join your cause.” 

Even as Finley tried to reply, one of the less enthused mages added, “People are talking, though they aren’t really _surprised_ , considering your prior choices.”

The other nodded. “You told us to wait until the castle was in better condition to come so as not to stress resources, and now it looks like we’ll have to walk into templars’ open arms to get there.”

“If rumors are true,” Reinald explained softly, “there’s a large contingency of templars en route from the Free Marches. They’re led by templars who are very much against freedom for mages.”

“I assure you that Herald Finley has no interest in turning her fellow mages out into the cold,” Dorian interjected before the bastards could build further off one another. He was sorely tempted to kick at Reinald under the table, but didn’t want to make things worse, as he was fairly certain that Reinald actually _was_ on their side—bizarre that it was that they would even have sides in this.

“If you hadn’t disappeared, I would have recruited you,” Finley finally spoke. “On our way to Redcliffe, red templars captured me. I disbanded the Order, and then went straight to you, but you’d vanished.” Even as one of the mages clucked, she shifted around to face them directly. That unsettling gaze directed straight at her dissenter quieted him almost instantly. “I understand it was likely necessary, I do, and I’m not blaming you. In the Wilds, I missed plenty of meetings because there were templars or some other danger chasing me or just in the area. It’s just that things worked rather perfectly against us.”

That seemed to give the two naysayers pause.

“The templars come to Skyhold because they were promised lyrium,” Warden Blackwall added, taking advantage of the lull in conversation. “After Finley disbanded them, it was Seeker Pentaghast and a former knight-captain who told them they could find purpose and lyrium with the Inquisition. Finley had no part in that.”

With an appreciative nod, Finley glanced at Warden Blackwall and then back to Grand Enchanter Fiona. “I wanted to wait to close the Breach, but Lady Vivienne said it would hurt us more to let it continue to grow unabated,” Finley continued. Her voice was surprisingly earnest. “She said that if people realized I had the forces to close it already and was waiting, that it would cast suspicion as to why I would let it continue to cause so much damage. …It would make mages in general look bad.”

“Besides, if she’d put off closing the Breach even another few hours, we’d have been fighting demons on top of the Venatori.” Varric leaned forward in his seat. “You wouldn’t _have_ potential allies to snap at because we’d all be dead.”

At that, Grand Enchanter Fiona held up a hand. “I fear you think we are criticizing your actions. I assure you, we are not.” The crispness in her tone made both of the ruder mages flinch. Reinald only nodded, and Dorian supposed he was glad he hadn’t kicked him. “However, this does make moving forward more difficult. We have children and those who cannot defend themselves so well with us. If we march into templar territories, it could be a blood bath, and we _must_ consider their safety.”

“Well.” Finley let out a breath, gaze dropping to the table as she considered what the grand enchanter had said. “I would offer that you come back with me to Skyhold now. Perhaps we can beat the templars there, or arrive before they have time to settle in. I told you before that I cannot assure your safety, and I can’t, but I can offer you a chance. If you stay here in Kinloch Hold, the templars will eventually find you, and all they’ll have to do is cut off your means for supplies and wait for you to give up or starve.”

While one of them seemed ready to argue that they were well aware of what templars were capable of, Grand Enchanter Fiona gave them a warning glance, and they fell silent. “You have always been so honest with us. What chance do you think we have if we come to Skyhold?”

“More of a chance than if you stay here.”

And there was the truth of it. Dorian knew, even before Grand Enchanter Fiona and her fellow mages withdrew to discuss matters, that the mages would be marching to Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I'm working on Andraste's Witch for NaNo WriMo this year, which means I won't likely have updates for the rest of November, but you can expect them to start back up in December. (I will try to find the time to edit and update before that, if I can get a bit ahead in writing, but so far I'm actually a bit behind ._.)


	56. A Wary, Weary Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley realizes that perhaps she just might have feelings for Commander Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I didn't make my word count for NaNo, but I did get a few chapters drafted! Since it has been a month, this chapter is a little longer than usual. I hope you enjoy it :3

Finley picked up her pace as she hurried across the ramparts. She’d learned a long time ago not to look back, but a part of her sorely wished to see just who it was who was following her. It didn’t feel like a templar, but that hardly meant they wouldn’t hurt her if they caught up, and something in her mind whispered that _if_ they caught up, they _would_ hurt her.

She’d grown rather accustomed to trusting such intuition in the Wilds, and so she picked up her pace again, trying not to look worried.

Where was a guard when one was needed?

Even as she wondered, she looked ahead and saw a familiar figure leaning against the battlements to inspect the valley beyond and felt a wave of relief. Breaking into something just shy of a jog, she breached the space between them quickly.

“Commander Rutherford,” Finley greeted him, trying not to look too relieved that he was there.

He sensed it anyway, giving her a rather lopsided grin. One of his hands moved to scratch at the back of his neck. “Herald…well, Inquisitor now, isn’t it?”

Finley shrugged a little, fingers moving to work on her braid. It had been too long since she’d seen him last and she was surprised by just how glad she was that he was the one she’d run into first.

Even as she thought of what she might say to convey the thoughts tumbling about in her head, that prickling sensation of being watched came back in force. With a shudder, her shoulders tensed. “I’m being followed.”

At that, the commander stood a little taller, looking past her, frown sweeping over his features. He moved as though to go past her, to walk her path and find the culprit. Reaching out, she lightly caught his arm. He glanced back at her, amber eyes softening.

“I don’t see anyone.”

The sensation of being watched felt further away, less focused than before.

Letting her hand trail down his arm, she hesitated. “Perhaps we could still head in? I imagine there’s a lot for me to catch up on here.”

Commander Rutherford nodded, glancing back one more time as though he might still go looking for whoever had been tailing her, and then turned, motioning the way she’d been going. “I’ve finally gotten my office set up, if you’d like to talk in there.”

The walk was surprisingly short, and Finley was a bit surprised how disappointed she was by that. The feeling of being watched was completely gone now. For the first time, she dared a glance back, only to see stone and mortar, as it should be.

Shifting a little, she turned back to Commander Rutherford. He was shuffling through a few reports already. “Has a lot happened while I was gone?”

“Of course,” he sighed, giving her an apologetic look. As she wandered closer, letting her fingers trail on the edge of the table all the papers were stacked upon—they looked far neater than his outdoor command center had been, almost as though they were back in Haven.

She stopped when she was beside him, staring blankly down at the pages in his hands, not really caring about any of them. Before she could muster a question to at least feign interest—if she didn’t seem interested now, he’d probably call for an official war meeting, and it would be a shame to have one so soon, seeing as she’d just gotten back, and could use an hour of a breather—he let the papers drop back onto the desk and turned to her.

Even as she looked up at him, a witty comment about shirking his duties died on her tongue. One of his hands came up, brushing her hair back so that he could cup her cheek, eyes warm as he searched hers. “I missed you.”

Finley blinked, a little taken aback by his forwardness.

However, she couldn’t say that she really minded.

Turning her head slightly, she ghosted a kiss against his palm. “Did you now?”

That smile of his returned tenfold, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Looks like you missed me, too.”

“My mind may have…wandered, occasionally.”

He leaned down toward her, his nose brushing against hers. “Oh?”

His hands were around her waist, slipping up underneath her shirt. She was a bit surprised by how much she wanted this. It was so…

Head tilting, she was already moving to kiss him when he did the same, and he claimed her with such ferocity. It…

It didn’t match the pressure against her lips.

With a frustrated sigh, she pulled away from him, realizing rather easily what was happening. “This just doesn’t work when you’re a dream.”

She could have sworn her dream commander gave her an apologetic look as he disappeared, and the world twisted back into the usual half-form of the Fade.

Opening her eyes, Finley stared up into the tree branches above her. It had been a long time since she’d dreamt about anyone in such a manner, and her mind wandered back through the dream, replaying what had happened and leaving her more than a little flustered.

It had been such a welcome…distraction. To be held, to feel skin against skin, to not have to worry about anything as the present swept her up in a rush.

She missed that.

But for it to have been Commander Rutherford was a bit odd.

Granted he’d been in her dreams lately, a quiet protector, a friendly shoulder, a savior of sorts, but this was the first time her mind had ever taken such a…drastic turn.

It really didn’t make sense.

Finley had always been so good about keeping her distance from templars. Though… Commander Rutherford wasn’t a templar any longer. And the way his hair curled when it was messed up and the stubble on his chin and…everything about him really was _so_ damned appealing.

When had _that_ started?

Even as she considered all the different times she _had_ been thinking of him lately, a soft, muffled gasp caught her attention. Peering down carefully, she saw two lovers entwined with one another at the base of the tree she’d decided to rest in, obviously unaware of her presence.

Not wishing to intrude upon them, she quietly slipped to far side of the trunk and carefully dropped down through the branches until she was on the ground, the tree still between her and the duo who had woken her.

Circle mages, if the two haphazardly tossed aside robes were any indication.

As she wound her way away from them and back toward the camp—she could always sneak into her tent and pretend she’d been there the whole night, though at this point people might be more surprised to see her coming out of a tent rather than out of the woods in the morning—she found herself surprisingly resentful of the two’s activities.

It wasn’t that they had woken her up—or even that they’d sent her dreams in a rather risqué direction with the commander as her focus—but rather their actions were a reminder of how long it had been for _her_.

With all of the madness that had overtaken her life the last few months, she’d barely had time to think of anything other than the impending doom that was sure to descend upon her at any moment.

Now, however, as much as she wanted to stay wary, it seemed less and less likely that she would be skewered anytime soon. While sex had crossed her mind a time or two at Haven and even on the trek to Skyhold, she’d been a little too preoccupied with not getting murdered to actively consider finding someone to warm her bed. However, it was becoming more and more clear that her established power would protect her to some extent, and as those raging fears died down, different emotions made her restless and longing for companionship, even something fleeting.

Especially something fleeting.

She’d long since sworn off serious relationships, as the only three she’d ever been in had ended on rather miserable terms—both mages she’d fallen for had turned into abominations, and she rather liked to forget her third blunder all together.

Yes, if she was to fall into something in Skyhold, it would need to be something uncomplicated and easy to untangle from.

For the rest of their trip back to Skyhold, Finley found her mind wandering again and again to that nagging loneliness, that need to be caressed and held, if only for a little while.

It was maddening.

More so, especially, when she finally gave in and tried to think who might make a good partner for something so casual, only to have her mind constantly wandering back to Commander Rutherford.

It was ridiculous to even consider him. He still had that templar feel about him, even if it was muted, and even if he didn’t, he was afraid of magic. Or at least unnerved by it. To literally get into bed with someone afraid of oneself was…demeaning.

Though…

It wasn’t like it would be serious.

They could have their fun and once the rifts were sealed, she would head back to her Wilds, and he would lead the armies on to destroy Corypheus. After all, it wasn’t like she’d be _needed_ for that fight.

Though…she wouldn’t want to just abandon her friends…

This is why Donovan never had any. He was right in all his lectures about how they complicated things. She couldn’t imagine abandoning Sera or Bull or Varric at this point, and had already made up her mind that she would only leave them before the end if being near her became too dangerous, if the templars turned on her or something of that nature.

They were all dear to her, and she could see that slipping into a relationship with any of them would end with her overly attached, which wouldn’t do at all. She was going to go home to the Wilds when this was done—assuming she lived through it—and she couldn’t expect any of these people to simply abandon their lives to go live with her in the untamed wilderness that she loved so.

Templars were out for obvious reasons, and mages…

She’d rather not have a third abomination ex-lover.

Even if this was to be casual, the whole thing with Aubrey had left her a bit paranoid that any mage she fancied would end up possessed by _something_ —while ‘her’ demon had possessed Aubrey, it had been a pride demon that had taken her first lover during the Blight. He’d always promised her that he would keep her safe no matter what, and so, when their position had been overrun by darkspawn, and several ogres were heading their way, he’d given in to temptation to give her and the few others with them time to run. Stories were that he held that position for over an hour by himself before the darkspawn finally over took him.

She didn’t really know how much of that to believe, considering as no one could have actually stayed back to watch his misguided attempt at heroism. While it was true enough that they had gotten away, Finley was still sure that they could have held out long enough for reinforcements to get there.

If they’d just worked together instead of him deciding he would carry the burden for all their safety—for hers—alone…

Sometimes she wondered if she might be cursed, though the only time she’d ever dared to bring it up to anyone had been once with Donovan, and he’d told her she just had terrible taste in partners. She chose weak mages and manipulative bastards.

And his point had been fair.

She’d already sworn off bringing emotions into intimate relationships before their little conversation, and his summary of her past follies reinforced her resolve.

The problem, then, was that she would always come back to Skyhold, and with relative frequency that made casual flings with multiple people somewhat awkward. Dorian had taken to explaining politics to her during their return trip with the mages—he was wonderfully subtle about it, too, making sure that the other mages didn’t hear him offering her advice and the like. It was appreciated, too, as she didn’t doubt people would be disappointed to know just how little _she_ knew of their political workings.

Through these explanations, she’d surmised that she could damage the Inquisition’s standing should she come off as somewhat of a…she couldn’t remember what Dorian had called it, but if she were to enter into too many flings, it would be frowned upon, and sleeping with guards or cooks or maids might be tricky as well.

Something about imbalance of power and the like.

That little voice in the back of her head had pointed out that Commander Rutherford had plenty of power with his station in the Inquisition, so it likely wouldn’t be a problem if the two of them had a bit of fun, but…

To be completely honest, what made her the most uneasy about entering into a relationship with him was the very fact that he came to mind so quickly as soon as her thoughts headed in a more sexual direction.

She rather liked him.

And while part of her was excited by the mere thought of tugging him into a dark corner and wrapping herself around him, the more sensible part of her feared that if she did pursue him, she would end up too involved.

Which would be foolish at best.

After all, her relationships never worked out, and he was a former templar, and he didn’t like magic…

And when the snow caught in his hair and made it start to curl, she wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through it and set those curls free. And when she watched him spar with his lieutenants to show the recruits what they needed to work towards, he was quite becoming. The way his voice rose and fell and just imagining his large, calloused hands working their way across her skin…

Her horse let out an indignant snort as though it could see what was in her mind and found her thoughts to be erring on the side of vulgar. Even as she glanced down at the beast to see it eyeing her from over its shoulder, one of the stable boys was there, hands out to take the reins from her only to hesitate when he realized she wasn’t holding them.

She swung down from the beast and let the young man get ahold of it, even as he glanced back at her looking more than a little confused.

She hated horses.

There were beasts in the Wilds that resembled them, though she only cared for a few of them, as they were quite wild and quite dangerous. Smarter than people and—if one believed the Chasind legends—older than mankind all together.

Horses, though, they were too…

Not what she was used to. They needed too much direction, and those saddles were a nightmare.

Miserable things. What self-respecting creature let that sort of restraint onto themselves willingly?

“Herald Finley.”

The fluttering in her stomach made her hesitate to turn toward the owner of that handsome voice, though she did so before he could call her name again.

Funny how just a few months ago, she had tried to pretend she couldn’t hear him.

“Commander.”

He stood near the entrance to the barn, wearing his usual Skyhold attire—that surcoat and a simple tunic and breaches, though they looked considerably more durable than the ones he’d worn when she left.

Their contacts must have come through for them with resources.

Commander Rutherford looked quite handsome, as usual, and she found her gaze wandering a little, though it snapped back to meet his when he began to talk. “I see you’ve brought some allies.”

His tone was…it was not unkind, but it did sound a little worried.

Suddenly, Finley wasn’t sure if she was glad to be back in Skyhold or not. She’d been so ready to be somewhere even remotely familiar and far away from the Circle—horrible place, that—but now it felt like it might prove just as unnerving as anywhere else in this miserable ‘civilized’ world.

The looks that had been cast her way as she led a veritable army of mages into the valley and straight to the old castle had given her a bit of pause, but she’d done her best to keep her expression neutral, and to remind herself that as the Herald and soon to be Inquisitor, there were people who would support her decisions.

Hawke had.

It felt odd to wish the man present when he was such a huge, bumbling creature that attracted attention from every direction with each step, yet she considered she might have appreciated his overwhelming personality just about now.

It would have been a nice distraction from the fearful looks.  

Hawke, however, had parted ways with them almost as soon as they’d recruited the mages. He’d left his steed for the grand enchanter so that she could ‘ride in style’, and had headed off to Crestwood to meet a warden contact.

Part of her wished she’d gone with him, though that was mostly because Isabela had said their contact was none other than the man who had slain the archdemon. Finley sorely wanted to meet such a hero, and it must have been plain on her face, for Hawke had promised to bring his warden friend with him to Skyhold as soon as he was able. Varric and Isabela had accompanied him, promising to be back as soon as they could. They’d also left behind their horses, saying something about being less noticeable on mounts.

It had worked out well enough to give a few other mages rides. Finley had suggested they double up on their mounts to help, but then there was no way to get everyone onto a horse, and it was stressed that the more ‘important’ people needed to stand out.

She was getting tired of hearing that. Between her eyes and that damned mark on her hand, she stood out without any extra attempts.

Further, she half thought that Reinald had suggested she keep her horse as a way to get her to stop offering it to the other mages. They all seemed about as wary of her as the general public was of them.

Perhaps it was because she was an outsider to their world. They could bond through shared experiences, but much of what they talked about—even when they talked of templars, it was a different experience than what Finley had had—was too foreign for Finley to really relate to.

She had never been to a Circle in her life—never dared to leave her woods to go far enough north to see one, despite the curiosity that overcame her sometimes. While all accounts of the Circles were terrible, horrible things, tales of abuse and confinement, of lovers separated and friends lost, she had, on occasion, wondered if it would be so much worse than the Wilds.

Granted, after the Blight she hadn’t thought that so much, but as a little girl, when the trees still held an ominous touch and she didn’t know how to tell the rustling of wind in the leaves apart from the prowling of predators, the idea of a roof over her head and a place where she could get food _had_ seemed rather appealing.

As she’d learned to survive in her own world, she’d slowly forgotten such wonders, only to have them stir whenever she crossed paths with a newly escaped Circle mage. They always spoke so hatefully of the Circles, and she’d come to believe herself one of the lucky ones to have never been confined so.

And yet…once in a rare while, she would wonder if the content mages didn’t just stay in the Circles. Perhaps these few who fled to her Wilds were their own breed of mage, people who couldn’t stand any kind of rule. Many of them certainly did revel in a certain amount of chaos.

What if only some of the Circles were bad? What if she could have grown up safe and sound?

Meeting Lady Vivienne had brought those wonders to the surface again, quiet whispers that perhaps she could have had a different life, a less stressful one. Lady Vivienne certainly didn’t seem afraid of templars. She was always so poised, so calm and in control. It made her wonder…

Going so close to Kinloch Hold had killed any renewed curiosity in the Circles. She’d felt the place miles before they’d been close enough to see it. It was awash with magical energy, but not the natural kind. It felt forced, bound, skewed. Demons pressed so close to the Veil that she could hear their whispers from across the water, see the shimmer of the Veil around the upper reaches of the tower in particular.

That place was not safe.

How could mages be sent to such a place? How could they have voluntarily hidden there? Didn’t they feel that magic ready to unravel around them? Were they simply so used to that oppressive atmosphere that they didn’t notice it?

No.

Finley would never set foot in a Circle. Ser Caudry and Ser Ross had been right. She wasn’t meant for places like that. She was meant for the wilder lands, where magic was free and so were its users.

And thus, she didn’t know how to talk to the Rebel mages. They were so closely knit, and they spoke quietly among themselves, eyeing her when she was near just as surely as a templar would.

Well, as they did now.

Before the Conclave, the templars would have skewered her and the mages would have been suspicious at best. Any mage who immediately tried to be friends was usually a blood mage assuming she was one as well.

Now, though. The mages didn’t know what to make of her, and she didn’t know what to make of them. It would help everyone if they were a part of the Inquisition, though. She was sure of that.

And they had little ones with them.

Finley hadn’t been sure what she would say to them until she’d heard about the little ones. At first she’d thought that perhaps they oughtn’t to come to Skyhold at all, with the other templars en route. While, yes, she didn’t want to be the one who drew so many templar gazes, she did have qualms with using mages who had never wronged her as distractions.

Mages like Marcus, of course, were another story. If one was enough of an ass, Finley had no problem setting the templars after them, particularly when she was sure they would likely outrun them.

These mages, though…

They didn’t need to be so close to demons, especially the children. It would be better for them if they came to Skyhold.

In a more relaxed atmosphere, it was much easier to ignore demonic whispers, after all. Finley had learned that a long time ago.

However, even as they’d marched toward Skyhold, she couldn’t help but wonder if her good intentions weren’t leading them into a slaughter. If the templars reached Skyhold first, or if people mistook them for Venatori or if…

Rather abruptly, she sought a way to respond to Commander Rutherford’s comment, not wanting to keep him waiting too long whilst she let her mind wander. “I said before I would bring the mages in.”

Finley hoped she sounded sure of herself.

If she didn’t, he made no indication. Instead, he simply nodded, gaze scanning the crowd milling about around them as though he expected to see familiar faces. He looked a bit relieved that he didn’t.

As she considered that she was happy for him that whoever he worried might have been there wasn’t, it hit her that she _really_ was fond of the Commander. More importantly, however, that fondness had been there for a while, in her head and in her dreams, even if she had been dancing around it, pretending she merely found him pleasing to the eye.

She’d barely had a chance to grapple with this realization before another struck her. If her demon had figured out she was fond of the commander before she had—the damned thing _was_ a desire demon—it might be going after him after all…

Even as he nodded again, still searching the crowd as though he might have missed a face or two, she hesitated, and leaned toward him. Now that she’d thought the demon might go after him, she couldn’t help herself. “Commander. Have you been sleeping well?”

At that, his gaze snapped back to her, and his eyes widened with what she could swear to be a look of terror for just a moment before he was stuttering and stumbling through some vague explanation of why he didn’t sleep that often anyway and how she needn’t fret over him.

She wasn’t quite sure why her question had panicked him so, but she figured that so long as she kept an eye on him, she would make sure he would be fine.

As it was, he clearly did not wish to discuss his sleeping habits with her—something that turned those earlier flutters into a bit of a pit, to be honest, though she shrugged it off.

“Herald Finley,” he said again as he cleared his throat, his gaze darting around almost franticly as he changed the subject. “I realize you’ve just come in and you’re likely tired, but perhaps we could have a word in private.”

She’d forgotten how prettily the light played on his hair while she was gone. Reaching up to tuck some hair behind an ear, she wondered if she ought to redo her braid. He’d seen her with worse, though, so it probably didn’t matter.

Her fingers instead found their way to her sleeve as she fiddled with it and nodded. “Of course. Of course I’ll go with you, I mean. I’m not really that tired.”

How she’d gone from uneasy around him to barely able to string a coherent thought together boggled her mind, though she didn’t have long to overthink it.

He let out an awkward laugh, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to or not at her comment, and then motioned for her to follow him. Even as she started to leave, she paused, lightly catching his arm. She could feel the muscles in his arm beneath his shirt.

Oh, but this was a torture of its own, wasn’t it?

“I need to introduce you and the other advisors to someone first.” When he hesitated, she turned back toward the stables, gaze scanning the figures until she saw who she was looking for. Lightly tugging Commander Rutherford back with her, she stopped when she was in front of the grand enchanter. After a few quick introductions, she looked up at Commander Rutherford expectantly. “Who would we need to talk to about housing and the like for Grand Enchanter Fiona and the other mages?”

“We’re already working on that,” the commander murmured, pausing to give the grand enchanter another nod. “We saw you coming up through the valley, so it gave us some time to prepare. All of the mages won’t fit in the castle itself, but we will provide space for your people in the base camp.”

“We will be split up,” Grand Enchanter Fiona murmured.

“Not to worry,” Leliana’s voice interrupted, smooth and sweet as ever. Glancing over her shoulder, Finley saw the spymaster sauntering up through the bustling crowd, smile in place. “We will see to it that you, and any mages who wish to join the Inquisition, are welcomed and safe.”

…-…

Finley was rather disappointed that Leliana’s arrival had apparently thrown a kink in Commander Rutherford’s plans, for once she was there, they all headed to Josephine’s office, with Grand Enchanter Fiona in tow, and the commander never once brought up his need to speak with her again.

To keep herself from delving too deeply into why she would be so disappointed, she let her attention wander on the brisk walk through Skyhold, pausing every now and again to nod toward someone who gave her a bow—or a wave, in Dalish’s case.

She had to say, the repairs to the castle were coming along nicely. Already, it looked so much…different than when they’d first found it. She supposed they’d probably consider it better, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to call it that.

It looked so…organized. Domestic.

Even Josephine’s office was different, with a few rugs imported from Antiva or Orlais or somewhere far off to brighten the room and all the creeping vines and mosses gone. Finley had liked it more before.

Despite all the changes, business seemed to move on as usual, somehow, and the advisors were quick to fall deep into discussion with Grand Enchanter Fiona, debating what ought to be done for the mages and how they might provide assistance to the Inquisition, and how to make sure Skyhold didn’t feel like a Circle.

Finley didn’t see how it could.

Even with the thinness of the Veil around Skyhold, somehow the spirits seemed to leave that place alone, unlike the Circles.

The creatures that had circled and watched Kinloch Hold whispered of unspeakable horrors that had gone on in those halls, and she was somewhat amazed that the mages staying there hadn’t all gone mad.

They would have no such problems here, surely.

Though…there _were_ a lot of templars.

After what had felt like hours, Grand Enchanter Fiona and Josephine had taken their leave to see about more immediate housing arrangements and talks that meant little to nothing to Finley. Both women had seemed pleased, at least.

As the door closed behind them, Leliana leaned forward, smiling at Finley. “You do not plan on leaving again tonight, I hope?”

Finley had almost forgotten how she’d practically stolen away in the dead of night last time so that she could go to the Mire. Shifting a little in her seat, she shook her head. “No, we found the scouts.”

While Leliana simply smiled, Commander Rutherford frowned ever so slightly at her comment. Leliana did not give her time to ask him why he seemed displeased. “Good. We will announce your rise to Inquisitor tomorrow morning. There will be a little bit of ceremony, but I will walk you through anything you will need to know before that. For now, perhaps you would like to go to your quarters and rest. It would be understandable. You have, no doubt, had a long journey.”

Even as Finley nodded, not quite sure where she was expected to sleep, the commander jumped to his feet. “You haven’t really had a chance to see your lodgings, have you? I can take you there.”

As she nodded, she paused, glancing around the room. In all the bustle and talks, she’d almost missed the fact that Cassandra was missing.  “Will Cassandra be there tomorrow?”

“That…we cannot say,” Leliana shook her head. “She is currently away dealing with an urgent matter.”

“The Marcher templars?”

“You know of them?” Commander Rutherford asked, looking most earnestly worried. That sent a trill through her.

“All the mages know of them,” she murmured. “We weren’t sure if they would get here before us.”

“Finley,” Leliana said her name, and somehow, it made her uneasy, “Please do not worry about such things. Cassandra is good at handling this sort of thing.”

With that, she excused herself to tend to other matters, and Finley was alone with Commander Rutherford.

Finally.

It bothered her almost instantly that she’d be so relieved by that fact. They stood there a moment before he awkwardly motioned for her to follow him. They wound their way back to the main hall and through it. A few small clusters of people dotted the areas free of scaffolding, and each of them wished to speak with her, though Commander Rutherford was quite good at explaining how she would speak with them later.

Once they’d gone past an awkward looking chair and started up a winding tower stairway, silence settled over them. As they continued up, she felt the occasional muted prickle of his gaze wandering over to her.

Finally, felt too smothered by the silence. As she began picking at her braid, she glanced over at him. “You wanted to speak with me earlier?”

“I, uh, yes,” he said, a little surprised. “Perhaps when we get to your room?”

Though she glanced around the stairway, looking for any signs of spells that might be used for spying and finding none, she simply nodded. “Have things been well here while I was gone?”

“They have,” he nodded. “We have more people coming in every day. I…I’m using that room we found as my office now.”

“Oh, good,” she smiled and could swear that he nearly missed the next step as he watched her.

He seemed nervous.

Were things with the templars going worse than Leliana had implied? Was that what he’d wanted to talk to her about?

Was it her? Her magic? They were a long way from anyone else, though…he’d seemed to not mind the two of them being alone before…

Before she knew it, he was holding a door open for her. She felt another shiver run through her as she stepped past him into the room. She liked when he held doors open for her. While he was just being nice, it still made her feel…special.

Though, it made sense. As Herald and soon to be Inquisitor, that probably did make her ‘special’ to just about everyone, though not in the sense she wanted.

“Would you…” Commander Rutherford’s voice pulled her out of her musings, and she turned to see he was still standing in her doorway. When he saw he had her attention, he cleared his throat. “If you’d like some time to change or freshen up, I would understand.”

That gave her pause. Dorian had said something about this sort of thing, though she couldn’t remember half of his helpful insights.

She was supposed to accept these sorts of offers, though, wasn’t she?

“I…suppose that would be nice,” she replied, the words a little forced.

With an almost relieved sigh, he nodded and turned to go. “I’ll have someone bring up bath water for you. If you’d like, we could discuss things after you’ve had a chance to have something to eat and…”

She didn’t really listen to what else he had to say. She was a bit too disappointed that he seemed so eager to leave already.

Perhaps if she wanted to have a dalliance, it would need to be with someone else after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads and to Slothquisitor for giving me feedback on this chapter :D 
> 
> I'd love to know what you think!


	57. Which Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finally talks to Finley about the Green Witch.

Cullen had been resolved.

He’d been more than resolved, though he couldn’t think of a word strong enough to attest to his dedication to his task. He was _going_ to talk to Herald Finley about the Green Witch and find out if there was any truth to the stories, if there was any truth to the connections being drawn between her and that…apostate.

He still couldn’t bring himself to consider this fairy tale character to be a real witch, even if that word was in their title.

Witches simply weren’t real.

However, the mages who claimed to be so _were_ , and if Finley proved to be one of the ones who declared herself as such, it would be…

Disappointing.

The mages who donned the mantle of powerful beings tended to be so…self-serving.

While Cullen had never met any ‘witches’ himself, he had heard more than a few stories, both from templars who had had run ins with them, and from incredibly bitter mages returning to the Circles, who cursed the damnable, Wilds’ mages for their callousness.

The sentiment in the Wilds seemed to be that no mage ever _truly_ need outrun the templars so long as they could outrun the mage beside them.

Cullen had always thought it so bizarre. When he was a recruit, he hadn’t been able to understand why mages would _want_ to live in such a hostile environment, where the templars couldn’t keep them safe from angry villagers and monsters and demons. After Kinloch Hold, he’d figured they were all blood mages or abominations, having long since succumbed to those malevolent whispers in their heads.

Now…

When it came to Herald Finley, he was always left guessing.

Guessing what her motivations were, if she was safe, if she was thinking of him, how her lips might taste against his—

His first dream of her had not been the last, and they had gotten progressively…detailed as the nights went on. In most dreams, he found her in the gardens, hair sparkling with dew and a mischievous smile beckoning him closer. Sometimes she stood beside him in the war room, just the two of them, when her hand would wind around his arm, tugging them closer as she whispered things that made his ears burn bright red at the mere thought of.

If he could help it, he would have let his mind wander elsewhere, but he couldn’t say that he was truly sorry for those dreams. They were better than most of the memories that haunted him.

Far better.

It was just…

Maker, help him, but sometimes he even woke up feeling like someone had been watching his dreams with a most disapproving countenance.

It had to be his guilty conscience. He didn’t even know if Herald Finley would accept any sort of advances from him, and yet he continued to savor those dreams—he could not deny that he often woke up replaying those events, his body tense and longing for her, even through his guilt.

And after all, she was a mage, and he had been a templar for almost his entire life. He’d heard of trysts and love stories between the two, but they rarely ended well.

And anyway, just because she didn’t shy away from him as she used to didn’t mean she’d want to hop into bed with him.

He’d originally taken to burying himself in Ser Ross’s recounts of the Green Witch’s adventures, but now…

He thought he could see the places where hyperbole had taken hold—most of the stories were like that, really—but every now and then there would be some simple detail that would remind him of Herald Finley, and he couldn’t help but think that if she had really done even half of these things, he might love her more.

Well, not love. Such a word was not to be lightly thrown around, especially when he was thinking of her the way he was…

But the point was, the Green Witch seemed to go against the standard rules—for lack of a better word—that the Wilds’ apostates adhered to. She helped people, even saved templars on a few occasions, though no templar was willing to come forward with such a story themselves. He had to wonder if the templars had feared being kicked from the Order or having a manhunt for their savior more.

Ser Ross had postulated between stories that she was a good soul, kind and gentle, as the tales reinforced. He seemed to think he’d known her from somewhere—he’d slipped up in two personal dialogues where he mused about her origin, implying he’d known a mage child who’d disappeared—though it was hard to tell if that was something legitimate or if it was merely the ramblings of a lyrium-addled mind.

However, if Herald Finley had really wandered so vast an area, tending to nature and the like…

He wished he could have seen her before the Conclave, away from prying eyes, just the two of them…

Such thoughts always had to be nipped rather quickly, for such ponderings were pointless, and they generally led him back to his dreams of her.

It had been such a blessing to hear from the scouts that Herald Finley was returning.

As soon as he’d received word, he’d begun going over in his head how he might bring up the issue of the Green Witch to her. It had been a welcome distraction from his boyish pining. Over and over, he’d considered opening lines and ways that he could ask without sounding too accusing.

And then he’d learned that she was bringing the rebel mages with her and had been thrown a little.

Clearly, the reason she’d been so eager to get out of Skyhold was to gather her fellow mages. He should have seen that.

Why, though, had she not simply told them? He hadn’t been fond of the idea of allying with them, true, but at the same time, he _had_ told her he would work with them, hadn’t he? Why had she felt the need to keep her goals a secret?

Whenever he began to think he understood her, or that he’d discovered something that shone a bit of light onto who she was beneath all that nervous fretting, something came along and upended what he’d pieced together.

He really was always guessing.

When he’d found her in the stables, his annoyance had fled his mind the second he’d seen her, namely because as soon as she’d turned to him, every dream he’d had of her while she was gone had come flooding back.

He’d been tongue tied, and he’d found himself struggling not to think about one of the more recent ones, where he drew her to him, feeling her heartbeat against his chest as their lips…

Maker help him, but how was he going to ask her about the Green Witch when he could barely keep himself from wondering what it would be like to help her out of her clothes and into his bed?

Worse still, after he’d somehow managed to say something that didn’t have to do with all those thoughts running rampant in his head, she’d asked him how his dreams were?

Did she know?

It felt like she knew, somehow.

And then she’d been tugging him along to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona, and he’d barely been able to focus on introductions with how he wished his shirt wasn’t in the way of feeling her touch.

He’d wanted to hug Leliana when she came up and interrupted their conversation. The more people were there, the more people talked, and it was at least a little easier to keep his mind from wandering to inappropriate places.

And then things had wound down, and they’d been alone and…

He’d all but forgotten about the Green Witch when she’d brought up that he’d wanted to talk to her.

So much for his resolve.

He felt like a young boy again, barely able to contain himself or focus.

Well, he _was_ focusing, just not on the right things.

Then they’d been alone in her room and…it had been a mercy that she’d wanted time to herself. It had given him the time he so desperately needed to gather himself and refocus his attention. He hadn’t told anyone else of what he’d read in the book yet, though he was sure he would need to.

He’d just…wanted to talk to her about it first.

Though, if he was going to get tongue-tied and awkward every time they were alone together, that was going to prove to be quite difficult.

Even as he wondered if he might ought to just go to Leliana with the book now and let her deal with the mess, that soft, gentle voice was interrupting his thoughts.

“Commander?”

His heart damn near leapt from his chest as he turned to see Herald Finley walking across the battlements to him. Her hair was free for once, hanging wet over her shoulders and down her back, and she was in a simple tunic and breeches that looked little awkward on her, like they’d been made for someone else. Considering the seamstress likely hadn’t had a chance to get Herald Finley’s measurements yet, it wasn’t that surprising.

Still, when she walked, he could see hints of her figure beneath the fabric, and it set his blood on fire.

Turning to let his gaze wander as though he were inspecting the progression of their fortifications, as he had been, he took a moment to think of more mundane things to calm his nerves.

Witches came to mind, and he felt both annoyed and relieved by that annoyance. It was a blessed distraction.

“I was hoping…” He hesitated, glancing around. When his gaze happened upon the nearest tower, he motioned toward it and looked back at her. “Perhaps we could talk in there?”

She’d seemed curious by his need to get out of the open, but simply plodded along beside him, fingers tangling and untangling in her hair as they went.

Though he’d intended to speak on the bottom floor of the tower, once they were in there, with the doors closed, it felt like those stone walls were too close, the un-cleared debris littering the floor somehow taking far too much space from the already small room.

He could feel a headache threatening to form at the edge of his consciousness, whispers of screams in his ears.

He jumped when he heard a noise and turned to see Herald Finley was climbing the ladder up to the next floor. Without thinking, he followed her up until they were in the open air at the top of the tower. He gulped down a few breaths before realizing she was watching him.

Shame slithered through his mind. If it wasn’t one distraction, it was another…

A thought that had been slowly building in the back of his mind whispered hatefully at the edges of his consciousness.

How was he going to keep things together here when he could barely keep _himself_ together?

He felt a touch of magic and snapped from his thoughts to see Finley setting a small light to hover just above the latched door leading down. The second his gaze swept toward her, she was peering back at him, that light casting odd shadows across their surroundings. “A ward. To let us know if anyone is coming up.” She hesitated, brow furrowing slightly as she glanced back at her spell. “You seemed to want privacy.”

“Yes,” he said a bit hastily. Taking in a breath, he looked down at the little orb. “What…exactly does it do?”

“It’ll flare if anyone other than us comes into view,” Finley replied, walking over to him. She stopped when she was beside him, glancing back. “If you don’t want it—”

“It’s fine,” Cullen murmured, glancing at the little light one more time before forcing his focus back on Finley. “I need to talk to you.” When she simply nodded to him, a surprising patience in her stance, he felt like someone had kneed his stomach. “It’s about…witches.”

He’d never seen someone’s eyes glaze over so quickly. She turned away, walking over to the battlements overlooking the valley and then turned back to him, leaning against the stone. “Commander Rutherford. I am _embarrassed_ for you. That a grown man could believe in witches—”

“I don’t,” he said, darting over to her despite himself.

He could swear he saw her tense as he approached, and it made that growing pit in his stomach all the larger. It had been some time since she’d seemed afraid of him, and that hurt him surprisingly more than he would have thought it would.

To think he’d been daydreaming of bedding her when she still recoiled from him so…

Pushing past his own wounded pride, he moved to lean near the battlements beside her instead of standing directly in front of her. Let her have a clear shot away, if it would make her feel better. Safer.

However, when he finally allowed himself to look at her again, half expecting that wary expression he wasn’t particularly fond of, instead he found her appraising him with care.

Her brow was arched, skepticism plain in her eyes. “You claim not to believe, yet you bring them up.”

“I’ve never believed in them,” he insisted, taking in a deep breath. The subject had been breached. There could be no going back. “However, when I was training to be a templar, I was told that there are mages who…pretend to be them…witches.” Her eyes had begun to narrow as he talked, and she shifted a little away from him. The movement nettled at the hurt already stirring in him. Blinking past it, he shook his head. “There are rumors that you are a witch.” Even as she fixed him with a stern look, he closed his eyes and asked, “Are you the apostate known as the Green Witch?”

When he opened his eyes, he was met with an eyeroll.

“I have never claimed such a title.”

Relief was the first thing to wash over him.

It was short lived.

If he took her words at face value, it was a good thing. However, with the way Finley was always so…distracting with her words… “Have _other_ people given you that title?”

Her mouth twisted to one side as she frowned, inspecting him with more care before she finally let her gaze wander. With a shrug, she played with one of her cuffs. “If you have learned nothing else in your time with me, it should be that I, your _Herald of Andraste,_ cannot control what others call me.”

Whatever answer he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that.

For a moment, he forgot about why he’d drawn her away, instead really focusing on what she’d just said. “Does it bother you that much to be called the Herald?”

“I would prefer most anything else,” she replied with another shrug.

Glancing down only to have his eyes drawn back toward the ward, he hesitated, unsure whether to believe her or consider this a new distraction tactic. When he looked back at her, he could see the honesty in her expression, a slight vulnerability, as though she worried she’d said too much. He swallowed. “You should have said something sooner.”

She was playing with a lock of her hair, winding her hair around her fingers and then letting it slip away. “It’s not so bad when you say it.”

“H—” He cut himself off. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, if I can help it. I’ve never wanted to make you feel ill at ease.”

“You’re a good sort, Commander,” she offered, pushing away from the wall and beginning to saunter toward the ladder.

Truly?

Honest as she’d been, she _was_ going to use her declaration as a distraction tactic.

“Finley,” he called softly. He was surprised how quickly she stopped, glancing back at him. “If you’re the Green Witch, we need to know.”

She crossed her arms, back still to him. “What makes you think I could be this ‘witch’?”

Cullen walked slowly toward her, giving her what he hoped was enough space as he circled in front so that he could see her face. Her expression was guarded. “I know she’s a healer with nature magic. She helps people who get lost in the woods. She saves injured animals. She mends trees struck by lightning. All in all, if we had to have a witch for Inquisitor, I’d say she’s the best one we could get.”

Finley arched her brow. “Are you flirting with me, Commander?”

“I, what?” He stammered. “I just meant…” Shaking his head, he frowned at her. “Please stop changing the subject. I only meant that—”

Reaching out, she lightly patted his arm. “That if you must be subject to the rule of a wicked witch, better one with a shred of kindness in her heart?”

“Not at all,” Cullen replied, catching her hand without thinking as she lowered it. He squeezed her hand gently. “I just mean that most people who pretend to be witches—or find themselves referred to as such,” he amended when she looked ready to argue, “tend to be less…altruistic. They care for themselves and little else, and they don’t…save the day.” He paused, growing a bit bolder. “The Green Witch isn’t like that, though.”

With a huff, Finley carefully pulled her hand free and crossed her arms again, fingers drumming against her sleeves. “If you _must_ give me more titles, I suppose I can be this Green Witch for you.”

“Are you saying you aren’t already?” Cullen wasn’t sure why he’d thought she would just tell him. If she was an apostate who claimed to be a witch, then from her point of view it would be foolish of her to admit that in a castle full of templars. And yet, he’d somehow thought—hoped, really—that she might trust him. Mostly, it was because being a ‘witch’ led to considerably more questions. Before he realized what he was doing, he was reciting part of what Ser Ross had written in his findings. “‘There is no binding name for the Green Witch, but you will always know her when you meet, for she has fire for hair and stars in her eyes that are unmistakable.’” He paused. “No name, red hair, and your eyes _are_ rather unmistakable.”

There was another huff, and then she turned fully toward him, stepping closer and leaning up on her toes. “If you already had your answer, why pester me for it?”

“Because…” Cullen suddenly found himself lost. He’d never been able to explain it to himself, so how could he put it into words for her? Why _had_ he wanted to talk to her about it? Why had it mattered _so_ much to him that he be on the same page as her _before_ he went to Leliana and the others with the information? “Because I wanted to hear it from you,” he finally offered.

It felt like an excuse. Maybe it was.

Maybe he just wanted her alone or to be in her confidence or…

She dropped back onto her feet, frown in place. “Well, if you need a confession for your accusations, you’re going to be disappointed because you shan’t get one. I don’t believe in witches. And even if I did, I couldn’t be one because I have no blood relation to the great and powerful Flemeth. I’m neither she nor ‘one of her many daughters’.”

Cullen felt his heart sink a little. All his practice in how to ask these questions, and he’d still fumbled spectacularly. “Witch or not, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He leaned forward a little. The evening light was dimming, and it was a bit harder to see. Her ward still cast enough light for him to see her well enough up close, however. “I swear. …So long as you don’t go running in red templar arms when I tell you not to, anyway.”

He tried to smile and felt a small wave of relief wash through him when some of the tension in her shoulders eased up. “Don’t suppose it’s really your fault when I go rushing off into danger, is it?”

“I’ll still feel guilty about it.”

Her lips twitched into a brief smile before she schooled her expression. He thought she was going for indignant, though it didn’t quite hold. “There _may_ have been some who mistook me for a Green Witch, on occasion, I suppose. I did not encourage it, nor do I now.”

“Well, I will need to speak with Leliana and Josephine about this.”

“Do you really?” Finley asked, her earlier bravado wavering as she hesitated. “ _Need_ to? Perhaps this could stay between us?”

There was a hope in her tone that Cullen wanted to do anything to please. However, he was the commander first, and she would be safer if everyone was on the same page. He started to reach out to her, but stopped himself, not wanting her to feel too crowded. He knew how uncomfortable that could be. “I do.”

Her gaze was downcast, expression hard to read. It made it all the more surprising when she reached out and took his hand, swinging their arms a little. “I trust you, so don’t…” She trailed off for a moment before glancing down. “Don’t sell me off.”

Her miswording of the saying made him smile a little, but he squeezed her hand. “I won’t.”

They stood there a moment before Finley bit her lip, attention drawn to the way he was still holding her hand. He could have sworn there was a light dusting on her cheeks as she pulled her hand away. “So then.”

“So then,” he echoed, watching her carefully. Maker, but she was beautiful.

And he was a fool.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he shrugged, glancing around. “Seeing as you aren’t fond of most titles, what are your feelings on Inquisitor?”

“I don’t have that one _yet_ ,” Finley retorted, arching her brow. “Though, that’s the only one I’ve ever actually accepted.”

“Well then, Inquisitor,” Cullen offered. “Shall we rejoin the rest of the castle? If we stay up here much longer, people might get the wrong idea.”

Tilting her head, she eyed him. “And what wrong idea might that be?”

He felt his cheeks burning instantly. “That is, that…that we…you and I…we wouldn’t want people to think…we were up here…being intimate or…”

Finally, he just stopped talking, not sure that there were any words he could say that would make what he’d been trying to say better.

However, even as he tried to muster his voice back so that he could apologize, she straightened up a little, her earlier smile back. “Would that be so bad?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm hoping to get updates back to Wednesday next week, but we'll see.


	58. Gathering Forces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra returns from her trip to stop a group of less savory templars from reaching the Inquisition.

“Welcome back,” Leliana’s voice caught Cassandra off guard as she strode through the courtyard, though it shouldn’t have. When they’d worked for the Divine, Leliana had always been showing up out of nowhere and slipping off just as quickly. “I take it the Marcher templars will not be a problem for us?”

“Did you not get our last raven?” As she spoke, Cassandra moved to wipe some of the dirt and sweat from her neck. She and her party had ridden fast the last few days to try to make up for how far behind they could have potentially fallen.

“The last raven you sent me carried a message saying you were going to the coast to look for the Marcher templars.”

Cassandra stopped on the stairs leading into the main hall, pushing aside the feelings of wear and exhaustion as they tried to claim her. “That was not the last message I sent you.”

Instantly, Leliana’s cordiality was gone, replaced with an icy look that sent a chill up Cassandra’s spine.

“It would be better to speak of this in the war room,” Cassandra replied, already resuming her stride. “I already sent someone to gather Cullen and Josie. I figured you would find out about the meeting well before news reached them.”

Rather than comment on Cassandra’s assumptions—accurate as they proved to be—Leliana caught a guard wandering past. “Gather Herald Finley, would you. She should be up in her quarters getting ready.”

“Finley has returned?”

“Who do you think brought the mages?” Leliana motioned over her shoulder toward the valley beyond their walls.

Cassandra glanced back, though she didn’t have a clear view of the valley beyond from where they stood. As they entered indoors, she shook her head. She’d barely noticed the base camp at all as she’d ridden back, aside from the fact that it had expanded.

Rather, she’d checked for signs of attack, and upon not finding any, had focused on getting to the castle itself as fast as she could.

“You will need to send word to Ser Yorric not to waste time scouring the Mire for her, then.”

Leliana’s incredulity rang in her voice. “You sent _templars_ after her?”

“For her protection,” Cassandra snapped, a little irate that Leliana would begin asking so many questions before they were safely behind closed doors.

Fortunately, Leliana seemed to pick up on Cassandra’s frustration and fell silent, pausing to frown when she glanced back and saw that the guard she’d ordered to get the Herald still stood at his post. Pivoting on her toes, she stormed back to him and Cassandra stopped despite herself, watching as the spymaster scowled at the man. “I told you to gather—”

He gave her a confused look, pointing down the hall. “The boy went to do it.”

“What?”

“The blonde boy…he…” Despite his confusion, the guard began to hurry ahead of them. “I’ll make sure he gets her.”

Cassandra nearly surpassed him as he hurried off, heading instead for the war room. Offhandedly, she noted that the keep already looked far more like a proper castle than it had when she’d left. There were Inquisition banners in place, all the old tapestries were gone, and the stained glass was fresh and newly completed.

With what was happening, however…

It wasn’t enough.

Each loose stone, each unsteady wall, everything looked like an exploitable weakness.

As soon as they were in the war room, Leliana closed the door behind them and turned to Cassandra, brow furrowed. “I take it something went wrong when you went to meet with the templars?”

“Everything.”

…-…

They’d made excellent time getting to Highever. The roads had been clear, and they’d ridden fast enough that there had been little time for conversation. The little they had talked had been while setting up camp, where they’d discussed what could be done to keep the peace.

Despite what she’d been told initially about the templar in charge of the group coming, Cassandra had still had hope that perhaps any fighting could be avoided. If they could speak with the templars, explain what was at stake and what they were fighting against, perhaps they could set aside their petty differences and work together to set things right.

Her suggestion had not been met with agreement.

Ser Yorric was adamant that they not allow these templars to come to Skyhold. When Cassandra had finally pressed him as to why he would advocate a bloody route rather than a peaceful one, if possible, he’d surprised her with his response. “If we let these templars come to Skyhold, we’ll be telling our dear Herald that we condone all that they do, and she won’t ever trust a single damned one of us.” After a moment, he’d added, “And these are the sort who don’t look at mages as actual people. We can’t stand with that. Even if we do need more blades, theirs will never help our cause.”

Cassandra had known she didn’t want them bringing their war with them, but she hadn’t really considered beyond that. Turning them away had felt dangerous, as had letting them come. However, the more she heard of Knight-Captain Maeville—Ser Yorric refused to refer to him with a higher title, as though mere denial could demote his fellow templar—the more she knew that what he’d said was true.

The man sounded like a war criminal, and that was just considering the things they’d known him to do _before_ the war had started. There were a few rumors of what he’d been up to, and they all made Cassandra sick to her stomach.

While she could not claim to care much for mages in general, no one deserved to be treated so cruelly.

Cassandra had considered trying to talk to the templars beneath Maeville to sway some of them to the Inquisition’s side, but she doubted it would be any better. Surely, though, not all of the templars coming from the Marches could be bad. If they were offered a chance at redemption, perhaps…

Leliana had sent out contacts to try to get more information about these templars, but all they’d heard was there were two ships full of them crossing the sea. Some sources said there were as many as two hundred templars.

Cassandra had brought twenty with her.

She’d spent time going over the numbers with Ser Barris and Ser Yorric, discussing if perhaps they should send for reinforcements. The problem was, they couldn’t really afford to draw more soldiers away from Skyhold just yet.

They’d decided that they would set up a camp a ways from the town, make it look as though there were more of them than there were, and only a few of them would approach Highever itself. That way they could honestly say there were more of them waiting, ready to come to their aid and make sure that no enemy templars left the port city without it being a complete lie.

The plan had been a little weak and too dependent on being able to fool their adversaries for Cassandra’s liking—and even if they did fool them, what they planned on doing with an army of hostile templars was a little murky—but it had been all they’d been able to come up with on such short notice.

As they’d ridden into Highever, her gut had been in knots, though she’d made sure to sit proud and tall in her seat and not let any of her worry show.

Worry that turned out to be for naught.

After a brief sweep followed by one far more thorough, Cassandra and the others found no sign of the templars or the ships that had supposedly carried them.

The next four days had been a hectic nightmare, in which they did their best to stay calm as they gathered information about ship routes and possible changes that would have resulted in the templars coming in at a different port.

Finally, just as Cassandra was ready to toss someone into the damned sea, they’d learned that another boat with templars was due in the next day or so and had decided to wait for it, lest the first rumors they’d heard prove to be gross exaggerations. If there were fewer templars coming in, that meant their ploy to make themselves seem to have more people with them might work out better.

And if these were different templars, it was hard to say where they might stand.

The last thing they needed was for templars—or mages—to reignite their war so close to Skyhold.

Though, truth be told, the war had barely reached a lull before the Conclave, and even if things had died down in Ferelden and Orlais, the reports they’d received from Nevarra, the Free Marches, Antiva, and the Anderfels sounded as dire as ever.

If rumors were spreading that the Inquisition had indeed sided with the templars, then that meant that the templars would begin to look to them for help in squashing any remaining mage resistance.

Somehow, Cassandra didn’t see Finley going for something like that. Even if she changed her mind while she was away and decided not to be the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste was still a powerful title, aided by the mark. If Finley refused to close rifts because of poor treatment of her people, they would be in a tight spot, indeed.

Though…that option hadn’t seemed to have occurred to Finley.

No doubt it had crossed a lot of minds that she could easily ask much of anyone she pleased, with the threat of rampaging demons on her side.

And yet she didn’t.

Finley was a better person than most, for she didn’t even seem to consider that a possibility.

It made Cassandra wonder how well-founded her dislike for mages truly was, though that was something she didn’t like to dwell on too much. She had much to prepare for and would find the time to reevaluate her world views later, once the storm had broken.

The ship they’d heard of had arrived the next night, and while Cassandra hadn’t been sure what they would do—confronting them in the city had seemed like a bad idea, especially if fighting were to break out—as she’d been going over a few reports sent to her from Leliana, a rough hand had knocked the table beside her.

When she’d looked up, she’d found herself grasping for a name to the familiar face.

“Knight-captain Rylen,” she’d finally said, a smile tugging at one corner of her lips.

With a quick bow, he’d grinned at her. “Don’t tell me Cullen sent us a welcoming party.” Even as Cassandra, Ser Barris, and Ser Yorric had started to talk at once, he’d shaken his head. “I told him I’d be back after I rounded up some good soldiers.” At that, his face fell. “I was sorry to hear about Haven, though. I…saying I wish I’d been there probably rings hallow, but…”

“Unless you can kill an archdemon, it wouldn’t have helped,” Ser Yorric had joked, though the humor fell a little flat.

Ser Rylen shrugged a shoulder, before pointing over it. “Well, I’ve got about fifty trained templars and other knights from the Marches who are willing to serve under the Inquisition’s banner.”

“Welcome allies, indeed,” Cassandra assured him, “though I must ask, have you heard of Maeville? Knight-commander Maeville?”

Ser Rylen’s brow had shot up as he considered it a moment. “Well, I sent word that I thought he was coming to Skyhold. A little surprised you all would be waiting here for me, when he’s got a week head start on my group.” 

And that was when it had really sunk in. “We missed him.”

As the words settled over the table, Ser Yorric had been the first to deny it. “But we’d have crossed paths with him if he was already on the road, and we’ve been here and there’s no word on templar movements in any of the other harbors right now. If he’s landed anywhere, he somehow managed to get an entire port city to keep quiet about it…and from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t exactly have the winning personality to pull that off.”

“Unless his ship docked somewhere off shore,” Ser Barris had pointed out, making the pits in all of their stomachs drop further.

“On the Storm Coast?” With a whistle, Ser Rylen had crossed his arms and rocked from heel to toe and back. “I’ve only been near it once, and I’ve no desire to go there again.”

Cassandra had shaken her head. “This makes no sense. He couldn’t have known we were coming to meet him. And why would he want to sneak into Ferelden unless he’s already decided that the Inquisition is against him?”

The thought was hardly a pleasant one.

Truly, the only positive notion that came to mind was that perhaps both ships had sunk, though there’d been no news of storms sweeping through the Waking Sea of late. It felt cold to hope so many would drown, but she wasn’t sure what else to make of their situation.

After all, templars did not simply disappear.

And even if they’d landed somewhere along the coast, Cassandra’s group should have crossed paths with them or heard stories of them marching to wherever they were going.

That night, after welcoming Knight-captain Rylen back and asking him to stay with them until they were certain the other templars would not be descending upon them any time soon, Cassandra had found herself alone in her room, sitting on her bed. She’d needed the rest, should they hear back soon, but everything just felt like it was spiraling out of control.

“Too many tethers, too many directions without a hand, pulling and prying and praying, but the damage is done. They break, tethers and tethered alike…” A voice had come from beside her, and she’d lifted her head, turning to see a blonde boy sitting on the bed beside her, head hung a little so that his shaggy hair covered his face. “They don’t understand their freedom, and they need someone to tell them they are right. So they go to you…or to him.”

The boy shuddered and shook his head, hair fluttering around him like a beast all its own. “But both can’t be right. Too many are lost. They can’t see themselves with you, with her. A mage. So they go to him. To Samson. He doesn’t tell them of the mage holding _his_ tether. Not until their new bindings are too tight to break.”

Cassandra had furrowed her brow. For a moment, she’d felt bewildered to have the boy there with her, to have not heard him come in, and yet something about him had seemed familiar, and she hadn’t been able to consider him a threat. “What are you saying?”

“There’s a boy. He wants to tell you, but he’s scared of your frown. The armor doesn’t help.”

“You want me to take off my armor and wander around?”

“Well, I’d ask Yorric, but the boy knows he’s a templar. And he knows you’re not. He’s never heard of a seeker, so you seem safer.”

“Why don’t you talk to him? You’re neither.”

“No, I’m not,” the blonde boy admitted with a sigh. “But the templars will wonder how you got the information if I give it to you. I don’t know that it would help. You should talk to the boy, and they’ll know the information is good.”

Cassandra hadn’t been sure why, but the next morning she’d gone for a walk around the market without her armor, though she’d kept her sword at her hip. As she’d been considering that she was wasting her time and leaving herself far too open, she’d felt a tug on one of her sleeves and had turned to see a small, elven boy staring up at her with large eyes.

Even as her brow had furrowed, he’d offered her a letter. “From a Friend,” he’d said before disappearing into the crowd.

It hadn’t taken long for Cassandra to realize this had to be one of Sera’s ‘friends’. The letter had a few misspelled words in it, but it’d spoken of boats coming to shore some fifteen miles to the east of Highever.

Leaving Ser Rylen in charge of the docks, Cassandra had taken Ser Yorric and Ser Barris with her to investigate the coast.

The trip had been a quick one, with little incident until they found exactly what they were looking for: two ships, anchored just off the shore, with a few abandoned boats still bobbing in the surf, and left to rot on the rocky beach.

Ser Yorric’s lips had dipped down as he examined the coast through the rain that was already making their armor uncomfortable. “These’ve been here for days. I don’t see that we’ll be able to find any good tracks.”

“Here.”

The three of them turned to see that same blonde boy standing near where the forest broke for the beach. Ser Barris was the first to react, stepping forward slowly, hand going toward his blade.

“I know you.” Tense as he was, he abruptly relaxed. “You helped alongside the Herald at Therinfal.” He blinked through the rain forming small rivulets over his dark skin. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“Introductions can wait until after you’ve seen.” Moving a few steps beneath the trees, he’d waved for them to follow. “Come.”

They’d wound their way through the trees, with the boy sometimes seeming to disappear altogether, only to reappear when they started to question just where it was they were going. Finally, they’d stumbled into a large cavern along a cliff they’d been following for a while, and the sight had made Cassandra baulk.

The cavern itself was full of signs that it had been a camp for at least a day or two, and to a great many people at that.

Worse, however, was the red lyrium already beginning to spike up through the ground and out of the walls.

When Ser Yorric started to step closer to it, Cassandra had grabbed his arm. “Wait—”

With a glance, he grinned. “Worried for my safety, dear lady?”

“Cullen nearly lost himself to this.”

At that, her companions were silent before Ser Barris pushed forward and carefully approached one of the jagged red spikes. “The song is loud, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“We took our lyrium this morning,” Ser Yorric added, patting Cassandra’s hand before gently pulling away from her. “As far as the commander goes, I’d guess he would be affected more than us because he’s not taking _any_ lyrium any longer.”  

“Maker…” Ser Barris had hissed, a little ways further into the cavern. Despite the hackles on the back of her neck standing on end, Cassandra unsheathed her weapon and headed in to see what had caught Ser Barris by surprise.

As soon as she rounded the wall, she had to fight the urge to gag. Charred, deformed bodies lay in a pile, limbs twisted with lyrium and burned faces still bearing the despair that had been plastered to them in death.

Even as Ser Yorric swore quietly under his breath, Cassandra stepped closer, counting. “Twelve, it looks like.”

“Twelve templars who couldn’t handle their red lyrium,” Ser Barris corrected. Adjusting his grip on his blade, he looked around the cavern, a sneer settling on his lips. “I’d hoped Therinfal was the only place they would do this to people.”

Moving away from the burned bodies, Ser Yorric simply sighed. “Don’t suppose they were nice enough to leave behind a ship manifest so we can see how many people we’re looking for?”

“You shouldn’t dally here. You know what you need to,” came that familiar, worried voice. When Cassandra looked back toward the entrance of the cavern, she thought she saw someone for a moment before she was staring at empty space.

“Come. We need to let the others know that the red templars are still a problem.”

…-…

Cullen leaned against the war table, frown firmly in place. “You’re telling me almost two hundred templars infected with red lyrium just disappeared?”

“No,” Cassandra replied, curtly. “I’m telling you that after we discovered what had become of them, we retreated. Even with Ser Rylen’s recruits, we only had seventy people to two hundred, and one red templar can take on half a dozen regular templars easily.”

“And where has Ser Barris disappeared to?” Leliana pressed. “You said you had no casualties and yet—”

“He and a small group went to Denerim, to warn King Cousland of the danger.”

“And you sent Ser Yorric and his group to the Mire, in case the red templars headed that way while our Herald was still there.”

With a sigh, Cassandra nodded. “We wanted to make sure she was aware of the problem and to bring her back safely. I will sleep better knowing she’s already here.”

As if on cue, the door to the war room opened, and Lady Vivienne and Finley entered, with Lady Vivienne reaching out to catch Finley’s hand as she reached for her hair. “None of that, dear. Do try to keep your hands to yourself until the ceremony is over. Have you thought of what you’ll say?”

As both mages noticed they were entering upon what looked to be a proper meeting, their expressions shifted slightly. Finley’s looked worried, and Lady Vivienne simply seemed idly curious.

As Cassandra looked at them, the stories of what the missing templars had done to mages came back, and she felt a sick twist in her stomach. Neither of the mages in front of her deserved any of that. None of them did, but to imagine a face to the horrors spoken of was just…

This war had to come to an end.

It had been clear before, but now…

Now she didn’t see the mages as quite so petulant as she had considered them before, and a little part of her felt like she’d misplaced her anger over Anthony’s death.

To blame all mages for what one had done…

Maker, but it seemed like their whole world seemed to do that, didn’t it?

Though…there were clearly repercussions for allowing magic to be free. Tevinter was proof of that.

But perhaps…perhaps their method had not been right, either.

Most of the mages Cassandra had met of late seemed like a decent sort, after all.

“Again, darling? Stop. The seamstress just finished with this tunic not ten minutes ago. Do try not put a hole in it already.”

Vivienne was again reaching out to stop Finley’s fidgeting.

Finley’s clothes were simple, yet elegant. Her tunic was black, with the eye of the Inquisition embroidered in brilliant gold across her chest. Her pants were a plain grey, tucking into black boots, and it looked like someone had managed to wrangle her hair up into a simple, far neater braid than usual. Some of her hair was already falling out around her face, and Cassandra noticed that Cullen had seemed to lose track of the conversation the second she’d walked in.

“I thought we were meeting in the main hall,” Finley murmured, gaze darting about as she tried to appraise what was going on. “But then they said to come here.”

“I’m afraid I just came in,” Casandra apologized. “With bad news.”

“I heard about the templars,” Even as the others looked confused, Finley shrugged a little too quickly. “Word travels fast.” She hesitated a moment and then asked, “Do we know who’s responsible for this?”

“Samson.” The word came unbidden to Cassandra’s lips.

That snapped Cullen back to reality. “I knew a Samson. He was kicked out of the Order for being…” he trailed off a moment before adding, almost under his breath, “for being corrupted by a mage.” Shaking his head, he narrowed his eyes as he looked at Cassandra. “It might not be the same person, but…”

“It is a lead,” Leliana interrupted.

“Does this mean he’s recruiting templars from all over to work for Corypheus?” Finley stepped closer to the war table, fingers drumming nervously against the edge of the wood.

Before anyone could answer, Lady Vivienne tensed, gaze snapping toward the back of the room, though when Cullen asked if she was alright, she merely narrowed her eyes and then whatever had happened was over, and her usual smile was back in place. “Fine.”

“We can talk about this after the ceremony. Let the day have some good in it before we get too bogged down with this new twist.” With a smile, Leliana waved Finley closer. “Let us give Cassandra some time to get cleaned up, and I’ll explain what will be expected of you. As Lady Vivienne has suggested, you will need to give a speech.”

Even as Finley nodded—pausing to give Cullen a rather hopeful look, though he was already shuffling through papers, head bent down—Cassandra sighed and turned to slip out of the room. There was always so much that needed doing.

A bath _would_ be a nice necessity, though.

“Seeker?”

Cassandra paused to look back and see that Lady Vivienne had come out of the room after her. “Yes?”

“Have you noticed anything out of place recently? Any…people?”

For an instant, a blonde boy came to mind, though Cassandra wasn’t sure where she knew him from. After trying to think another moment, Cassandra sighed. “Is there someone I should be watching out for?”

“Perhaps not,” Lady Vivienne smiled again, stance calm, collected. “Do let me know if you think of anyone?”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments! Ya'll make my day <3


	59. A Box of Bad Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley has barely had time to settle into the role of Inquisitor when a piece of her past collides with her present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for body horror (it's prolly not what you think) and red lyrium stuff.

The day started off normal enough, all things considered.

Well, it started with what seemed to be the new normal, anyway.

Finley woke up from her perch in one of the garden trees early enough that she could slip back up to her room before Josephine went up there to begin their morning rituals.

Well, they felt like rituals.

Like _something_ was being sacrificed.

She’d accepted the title of Inquisitor two weeks prior, in front of a surprisingly cheerful mob that had nearly stopped her heart. She couldn’t even remember what she’d said in front of them all—she’d had to give a speech of all things—but apparently it had been very inspiring because people were still coming up to her and telling her that they’d been moved to tears by her words.

That was when things had begun to shift toward this current routine, one she couldn’t decide if she liked or not.

The first day after the ceremony had started with mild chaos. Finley had gone to sleep in the kitchen rafters, and when she woke up, she’d found that all of her advisors were panicked and searching for her. What would normally be a comfort—and honestly it still was—that no one could find her had become a panic inducing nightmare to others.

Her advisors had taken her up to her room, and Commander Rutherford had explained that because she was _so_ important, they needed to be able to find her, especially if there was an attack on the castle.

While Finley wasn’t about to start sleeping in that lonely room at the top of the tower, where it would take far too long for help to come should she be attacked and there were too few escape routes, she had decided that she could wake up a bit earlier so that she could be where they were comfortable finding her before they got there.

It surprised her a bit just how much better she felt being able to curl up in different nooks instead of feeling like she _had_ to go back to that little, defenseless hovel that she’d had in Haven. Technically, she could have hidden in different places, but she’d been too afraid of upsetting these people, lest they decide she wasn’t worth keeping around.

Now she was fairly certain she was safe.

Once Josephine greeted her with the rising sun, her day began properly. Etiquette training, history lessons, and explanations of current events weren’t so bad, but Finley wasn’t fond of her writing exercises—apparently her handwriting could bear improvement, as she ‘scribbled too quickly’ most of the time—and she abhorred any talks of learning how currency worked or foreign languages.

In truth, she didn’t mind _listening_ to foreign languages, but she’d been very self-conscious of speaking incorrectly ever since her father had…

Sometimes it amazed her that a dead man could still make her feel so miserable, and she tried to keep up with her Orlesian lessons, if only to spite the bastard.

So far, she could ask how someone’s day was and list her colors without garbling the words horribly. She had a feeling that Josephine would have liked her to learn a little quicker, but the ambassador really was a kind soul, and did her best not to put too much pressure on Finley.

The only subject they seemed to be at odds with was currency. Finley thought it was pointless, and thought that other people who cared about it could keep track of what coins went where, and Josephine kept insisting that she would need to understand it herself.

Thus far, neither of them had relented, leaving her poor instructor a little lost as to how to actually spend his time with Finley. That was alright, though. Finley had outlasted Donovan when he’d tried to insist that all mages could cast a fireball, and she was confident she could outlast Josephine with this debate as to unnecessary skills.

Her lessons typically took her into the early afternoon, and from there she had a little bit of freedom, even if it seemed to be taken away as soon as it was offered.

Her afternoons rotated somewhat. Somedays she joined Sera and Rocky in their experimenting with different alchemical concoctions, other days she was spirited away by Josephine or Vivienne to get measured and then stand still while dresses and tunics were sewn and fitted to her—it was agonizing, considering how little she liked to be in one place for extended periods of time. During these days, Vivienne and Josie had a tendency to quiz her on the things she was supposed to be learning.

Still other days, Vivienne or Fiona—they seemed to be in a rivalry for who could get to her first each day—would take her aside and talk about Circle history.

Finley didn’t get to work on her magic nearly as much as she would have liked, but she had managed to squirrel away about an hour a day where she and her slowly growing mage circle could meet and ponder how best to improve wards or expand upon their understanding of other spells. Fiona and Reinald joined their group on occasion, though things tended to get a bit catty between them and Vivienne if there was a lull in actual magic talk.

It reminded her of when she and the other apostates would meet on occasion back home, and it the dissonance was oddly comforting.

Vivienne never outright said anything rude, and neither did Fiona, but one could feel the tension in the air as they spoke in clipped tones about how the other was losing their touch. Dalish and Dorian had a bet going on when they would finally give up and just start a brawl. Finley was certain that would not happen—if anything, she was surprised they hadn’t already started sending curses each other’s way, though apparently Circle mages seemed less inclined to curse or hex one another in general.

Solas had yet to bring up Finley’s demon, though she was quite certain he wouldn’t forget about it. She wished he would, and had even wondered once if she could get Cole to make him forget, though the spirit had appeared next to her shortly after and told her that what she was thinking would be a very bad idea.

Her evenings were about as structured as her mornings. Meetings with nobles and merchants who had come to offer support to the Inquisition, as well as briefings on the different aspects of the Inquisition’s growth and possible threats.

Finley had honestly thought that she would be heading back out to close rifts as soon as she accepted the title, as she felt they were a more pressing issue, but it turned out that she’d closed almost all of the rifts in Ferelden, and Orlais was making it difficult for them to enter the country, what with the civil war and all. Finley had suggested they just head to those Marches, but Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen had all objected, stating they didn’t have enough influence to the north yet, and wouldn’t likely gain any until they could win over Orlais.

It seemed beyond ridiculous that she couldn’t enter an area simply because someone faraway said so. Unless they were mages casting wards or repelling spells, words couldn’t actually stop a person, and the people puffing up and insisting upon all these strange hurtles were no mages.

Now that she had to pay more attention during the briefings, and attend the meetings, she was beginning to wonder if she could pass the title of Inquisitor to Cassandra. They’d told her she would have to do this, but she hadn’t thought it would take _so_ much of her time.

On the off day that she wasn’t cooped up listening to people drone on, she trained with Bull, the Chargers, and sometimes Blackwall. Cassandra and Commander Rutherford had joined them twice, and she’d enjoyed getting to rest against the makeshift fence around the training grounds with him.

Truthfully, she already thought of him more as Cullen than the commander, but he was so formal with titles when he spoke with her that she was certain he must want his own intact. After all, the second he’d realized she didn’t like Herald, he’d been searching for another title—she’d been half afraid he’d start referring to her as the Green Witch, though it had barely been more than one discussion with Leliana and the others, during which they’d simply said it would help them craft and stem rumors.

Whatever that meant.

Cullen hadn’t brought it up since, though she almost wanted to ask him where he’d heard of her from. That…might be awkward, though. To seek him out so.

After all, even though she enjoyed his company, she couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated with him.

Two weeks ago, she’d thought she’d been very direct, very clear. He’d seemed embarrassed at the thought of people thinking the two of them might be interested in one another, and so she’d taken the opportunity to ask him if it would matter.

The tower top had become deathly quiet after she’d said that, and she’d been able to see the thoughts shifting about and falling into place behind his eyes as he processed what she’d said.

She’d rather hoped that he might take her up in his arms right there and kiss her, but alas, such was not to be.

Abruptly he’d been stuttering out an explanation of why it might be seen in a negative light were they to be assumed to be together and then he’d nearly fallen down the ladder while heading down, still babbling about not wanting false rumors and some other nonsense.

She’d been a bit too disappointed to listen to all of it.

It had been very obvious, however, that Commander Rutherford wasn’t interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with her, and she’d decided—a bit resentfully—to respect that.

And then the next day she’d caught him watching her with a look she knew well and had been baffled.

 _That_ had been the look of a man who saw something he liked. And it wasn’t as though it was a single occurrence. He’d blush when he realized he was caught, and he was always stammering and telling her awkward compliments and the like.

But if she tried to drop hints that she’d be quite receptive to any advances from him, they seemed to go over his head completely. She went to him after he’d been hurt in a sparring match with Bull and offered to heal him, and he’d declined. She’d offered him compliments, watching carefully how he took them and had even encouraged him to put his hands on her during a fitting for a dress.

Dorian had been beside himself after that. The mage knew nothing about southern fashion, but he insisted on being present for different fittings so that he could give a ‘man’s perspective’. Really, he just liked watching Finley argue when they told her she had to stop fidgeting or that something horribly impractical was something she should expect to wear.

She didn’t think she argued _that_ much, but…

But even Dorian had figured out that Finley was fond of Cullen, so why couldn’t _he_?

If he wasn’t attracted to her, she could understand that, but…it didn’t feel like he wasn’t attracted to her. And he seemed to linger near her when they had the chance and…

Ser Yorric had returned to Skyhold about a week ago, and since his arrival, Finley had noticed that much the way Cullen watched her, Yorric watched Cassandra. And Finley had caught the blush on Cassandra’s cheeks a couple of times, as well as the way her gaze lingered after him when he left or how she seemed to perk up ever so slightly when he was near.

Figuring that they must be in some sort of relationship, Finley had pulled Cassandra aside the night before.

“I need your help understanding something,” Finley had started, a little nervous. Originally, she wouldn’t have gone to Cassandra at all, but rather Sera, but Sera wasn’t particularly fond of Cullen to begin with and then Cassandra seemed to be in the same place Finley was—or close to it—and she did seem to be rather good friends with Cullen, so surely she would have insight in that regard, if nothing else.

Cassandra had simply nodded. Since Finley’s rise to Inquisitor, she’d found that most people closest to her were more than happy to explain little details or reasons behind certain actions she needed to learn, as she didn’t mess up nearly as often if she could understand the point behind whatever she was doing.

She’d almost changed the subject to ask Cassandra about why there were so many different spoons that Josephine was forcing her to memorize—she still didn’t get the point to those—but somehow managed to steel herself. “I…seem to be a little…confused when it comes to displays of romantic intentions.”

Cassandra’s eyes had gone wide like Finley had just placed a curse on her. “I—what?” Even as Finley had tried to figure out how she’d gone wrong with so simple a statement, Cassandra shook her head. “If some noble has tried to win your favor, then I would speak with Josephine about it.”

“No, that’s not it,” Finley had argued, feeling a little foolish. “Things are just less complicated in the Wilds and I…well, there’s you and Ser Yorric and I thought—”

“Me and…you are _mistaken_ ,” Cassandra had gasped, taking a step back. Her cheeks were redder than Finley had ever seen. “Our relationship is purely professional.”

Finley recalled having narrowed her eyes as she thought back to all the little interactions between the two. “It is?”

“Of course it is. We have a world to save and demons to fight and…and there is nothing wrong with a bit of cordiality between people who must work together.”

Finley had stood there a moment, with Cassandra still staring at her, aghast, and then she’d tilted her head. “So…the quiet smiles, the leaning in, the compliments, all that is just…friendly.”

“Of course it is,” she repeated in a scandalized whisper. “You are reading too much into little things, and if you have any further questions about relations, you should really go to Josephine.”

And with that, Cassandra had excused herself to do…something—Finley wasn’t sure Cassandra even knew what she’d hurried off to do—and Finley had been left rethinking her interactions with Cullen.

Indeed, she’d barely paid any attention to her studies this morning because she’d been too torn between asking her tutors about how relationships actually worked here. Cassandra certainly gave Ser Yorric lingering looks, much as Cullen watched Finley, but if _she_ wasn’t interested in her templar, then maybe Finley _had_ been reading Cullen wrong.

But if she was, why didn’t he _say_ something? Why didn’t he tell her that her advances were unwelcome, that he fancied another, or just didn’t fancy _her_? Why let her make a fool of herself for two weeks?

She should have stuck to her resolve to leave him be, but he was so damned handsome and adorable and…she’d thought…

Cullen was quite frustrating, but she’d decided that it would be for the best for everyone if she could simply get over her foolish crush. After all, according to Cassandra, all those looks and kind words meant nothing.

Her language instructor—a nobleman from Orlais—seemed to understand she was too distracted to get much done, and had thus released her early from her torture, expressing that one could not force learning or it would become quite tedious.

Grateful as she was, she hadn’t been sure what to do with her time, and had wandered aimlessly until she bumped into Sera.

Now, the two sat upon the roof of the tavern, surveying the training grounds and rest of the courtyard with mild interest. She’d made her case to Sera and couldn’t help but wonder if her friend would have any actual advice on what to do, or if she’d tell her that she shouldn’t bother with Cullen after all.

“Wait, wait, wait. You mean—”

“Inquisitor.”

Casual conversations were such fleeting things these days, but Finley tried not to look too agitated as turned to see the scout tentatively trying to walk along the top of the roof to them. He was one of Cullen’s men—Jim, if she remembered correctly.

“You…we can come to you,” Finley offered, noting the look of relief on his face as he stopped, haphazardly straddling the peak of the roof. Her heart fluttered a moment as she wondered if he might have a request from Cullen, but a soft ribbit distracted her as she walked up to him. Her gaze dropped to the package he was holding in his hands.

“Uh, m’lady, there’s quite a few people looking for you. The dwarf, Cadash, among them, and this…” he awkwardly offered her the package, “was brought in. I didn’t get a good look at who it was, but they insisted I get this to you, and it not be opened without you present.” He paused before adding, “I was going to check it anyway to make sure it wasn’t anything dangerous, but…” His next words were uttered with a single exhale, “I can’t seem to get the lid off.”  

There was another ribbit.

Sera was standing on her toes behind Finley, chin resting on her shoulder as she peered at the container in the scout’s hands. Even as she asked something about the box in question, Finley noticed a small glimmer of lyrium on the top of it and took a slow step forward to see words had been written carefully so that non-mages wouldn’t be able to read.

_You’ll likely want this back -M_

Even shimmery and translucent as it was, she’d know that handwriting anywhere.

Marcus.

Lithely ducking out from under Sera, Finley darted forward and carefully pulled the box from Jim, smiling as best she could. “Thank you. I’ll take care of this.”

Before Sera or the scout could ask any questions, she slid down the side of the roof, landing a little awkwardly on the ground, though a quick heal fixed any aches that might have otherwise prevailed.

She’d barely made it a few steps when her name was being called again. Glancing toward the voice, she slowed her stride with great reluctance, allowing for Bree Cadash and another dwarf to catch up. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry—” Seeing a few of the Chargers at the edge of the training grounds she was going to pass, she perked up a bit. “Dalish! I need your help.”

Even as the elf waved and started toward her, Bree coughed into her hand. “I can see that, but I need to introduce you to a friend.”

Finley glanced at the new dwarf, allowing a fleeting smile. “A pleasure. I’ll be happy to speak with you later—”

“This is Dagna. She’s an arcanist, and I thought that she could help you with magical studies. I know she’s not a mage, but—”

“But sometimes it’s good to get an outsider’s perspective,” Dagna chipped in, smiling brightly as she scurried to keep up with Finley. She had a large pack slung over her shoulder with scrolls and oddities poking up from it. “I’m really honored that you requested me. I promise that you won’t regret it!”

Even as Finley narrowed her eyes, Bree coughed into her hand. “It was signed off on.”

Finley didn’t remember hiring an arcanist, but dismissed it, figuring that it was likely something Josephine or one of the others had done. “It’s good to have you with us, truly, but I really must—”

“You needed me?”

Finley nearly screamed, despite the fact that she’d called Dalish over herself.

She knew damned well what was going to be in this box, and she needed to deal with it _before_ anyone else figured it out.

“I need you to gather a few reagents and meet me in the Undercroft.”

Another ribbit.

Silence followed her declaration as all eyes went to the box, and Dalish cocked her head, reading the script on it with idle curiosity. “Is that…?”

Finley really didn’t want her to finish that question. “Do you have something to write with?”

“Oh, I do!” Dagna somehow managed to pull a quill and parchment out of…somewhere and was already standing at attention, poised and ready to take notes. When she saw the looks Dalish and Finley were giving her, she shrugged. “It’s always good to have paper on hand. Never know when you’re gonna get hit with a new idea, you know?”

Taking in a slow breath, Finley nodded. She hadn’t wanted to involve anyone other than Dalish—her fellow apostate would be more willing to keep a secret, and it’d be easier to do so with only one other person assisting.

However, it would be hard to turn away such an energetic helper, and might cause more suspicion than just letting her gather a few things. She could always make up something to get rid of her about needing concentration for magical practices later or something.

With a quick nod, she rattled off what was needed, finding herself somewhat pleased with how quickly the dwarf took notes. She wrote about as fast as Finley did. Faster, even. And no one was badgering _her_ about her penmanship.

“We’ll get right on this!” Dagna had chirped, as Dalish said she’d show the dwarf where they kept their supplies and how to get to the Undercroft.

However, before they could depart, Bree waved her hand to catch them and pause their chaos. “There’s a bunch of workers who came in today who are going to be stabilizing the Undercroft so that it can be used. If you were going for privacy, you’ll need to go somewhere else.”

Even as Finley started after them once they decided on one of the smaller rooms in the underbelly of the castle a few halls away from the kitchens, she heard a rather cheerful voice call out her new title and that familiar prickling of a templar’s gaze rested on her. Looking down at Bree, she motioned without looking over her shoulder. “I didn’t hear them, and _you_ need to talk to them about something very important.”

The way they were coming was too close to the stairs she would need to use to follow Dalish and Dagna, so instead, she hurried in a different direction, trying to look as discrete with her box as possible. She heard Bree intercept the templar—it sounded like Ser Yorric—as she was slipping through a side door and into the castle.

The last thing she needed was to have a templar catch her with a polymorphed…

Who would this even be? Donovan was the one who usually sent her trespassers or other mages who had pissed him off, not Marcus. And his note said that she was getting something _back_.

That _he_ had sent her a polymorphed creature meant it might not even be human.

As she was trying to think of which animals lived nearest to the cave he’d claimed he was going to take and which might be most likely to defend ‘her territory’, the worst interruption of the day occurred.

“Inquisitor—”

Of all the people in the damned hold who could have intercepted her when she was almost to the meeting place, it had to be Cullen, didn’t it?

As she’d turned to look at him as he walked up from an intersecting corridor—what he was even doing in this part of the castle was beyond her—she tried not to notice how the torchlight from the sconces on the wall made his hair shimmer. She’d decided she would be respectful of his wishes, hadn’t she?

As she tried to school her expression into something that wouldn’t betray her, Cullen crossed his arms. “What’s with the box?”

“Must there be something with it?” Finley replied almost instantly, shrugging as if she could distract him with so simple a motion. Of all the times to run into him, this was easily the worst, and she fell back on simply saying the words that came to her instead of trying to be reasonable, hoping he would get distracted or annoyed and dismiss himself.  “Honestly, you Lowlands creatures are so odd with your need for _everything_ to have some greater meaning or point. Perhaps it is just a box, and I felt like—”

She was interrupted by a ribbit.

Silence resumed between them as they stared at one another.

Finally, Cullen pointed at the box. “Is there a frog in there?”

“No,” Finley said a bit too quickly, straightening up and adjusting her grip. “There are no frogs.”

It was true enough. Marcus had learned his polymorph spell from Donovan—it had been a trade of some sort that Finley still felt mildly betrayed by—and she’d had a long talk with Donovan about the dangers of turning people into frogs, and they’d come to an arrangement.

So it was hardly a lie to say it wasn’t a frog. And anyway, whatever that creature was in its natural state, it definitely wasn’t likely to be small or cute like a frog would be.

“Finley, if someone sent you a frog, we need to address this.” Cullen started to breach the distance between them, but stopped before he’d taken a full step, to which Finley was extremely grateful. She would hate to have to outrun him. “It’s bad enough that there are some people who think you’re an actual witch. We don’t need rumors of you carting around reptiles—”

“Frogs are not reptiles,” Finley retorted before she could stop herself. She coughed a little to clear her throat and then shrugged again. “Though, your point is made, and it is therefore a fortunate thing that I’m not carting around any frogs.”

Another ribbit.

“What  _is_  in the box?”

“Hmm?” Her voice was strained as she tried to think of how to get him off this subject. What could she actually say? That she didn’t really know? True as it was, that would make him want to investigate further. She’d needed something small and inconsequential that sounded like a frog but wasn’t…something like…

Racing footsteps drew her from her thoughts and she blinked, looking down the corridor opposite the one Cullen had come from to see Dalish rushing up to her, arms laden with the needed ingredients.

However, rather than their new dwarven accomplice, Dorian was the one in tow behind her, half a dozen books practically falling out of his arms, his expression one of pure enthusiasm.

As the two stumbled to a stop beside her, Dalish was about to say something when Dorian cut in, attempting to flip through one of his books. “I must say, but I didn’t think this was actually something that could be done, that it was rather one of those rumors that came about from years of—”

He stopped midsentence when he noticed Cullen and then gave him a brilliant smile. “Commander Rutherford. Good to see you. I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing with a friend or two, and I think our next game will go in my favor.”

Rather than take the bait, Cullen crossed his arms, inspecting the three of them with more care. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” the three of them said in unison.

While Finley was grateful that Dorian had the sense not to go telling Cullen what he thought was going on, she wasn’t very fond of the fact that their consensus seemed to only make Cullen more suspicious than he had been before.

Narrowing his eyes, Cullen took a few steps toward them. “What’s in the box?”

Finley could hear Dalish and Dorian shifting behind her, and had to stop herself from looking pleadingly to them for help. Just as she was about to wonder if they couldn’t just outrun him after all, a merciful blessing that was almost enough to make her believe in the Maker occurred.

“Commander! I have that report you were asking about!”

It was the same scout from before.

Bless him.

She, Dalish, and Dorian didn’t even need to say a word. The second the commander was looking the other way, they bolted, sliding around a corner and nearly tumbling into one another, not bothering to look back and see if he’d decided to follow them.

When she was confident that they were a safe distance and that he wasn’t actually trying to catch up, she glanced at Dorian and then Dalish. The elf picked up on her question before she could ask it and rolled her eyes. “Your Tevinter here took the last of the crystal grace, so I had to track him down to get it and, well, he wouldn’t let me have it until I told him what I thought it was for.”

“Are we truly dealing with polymorphism?” Dorian asked, cheerily leaning toward the other two, a glint in his eyes.

“I’m surprised you’d be so interested,” Finley murmured, a little annoyed—if he could come up with what it was, too many other people were going to as well. “You’re from a country run by mages, aren’t you?”

“They used to always say polymorphism was banned in Tevinter because of misuse, but I’d always just assumed no one could actually figure it out, and everyone was trying to save face.” Dorian’s gaze gleefully alighted on the box.

So she’d gone from one person needing to keep a secret to three, with even more people wondering about the box itself.

Lovely.

Secrets were so much harder to keep when there were so many people about.

However, having so many sets of hands would make the task of setting up for the polymorphism reversal far easier.

When they arrived at their destination to find Dagna waiting dutifully—apparently Dalish had brought her to the spot before rushing off to find Dorian—Finley took a quick inventory of their supplies and decided that they did indeed have all that they needed, she finally set the box on the ground, sitting in front of it, cross-legged. It was a tad annoying how everyone else immediately flocked over to where she was as she tapped the seal on the box with a bit of magic and then lifted the lid.

With Marcus, she hadn’t really known what to expect, but there, sitting in the box with a few leaves and a cricket, was a large, fat toad.

“Is that…” Dorian frowned, leaning forward so that his head was hovering above her shoulder. “I know those markings. This is an Eastern Tevinter Bulltoad. Why in the world would someone send you one of these?”

“Because we agreed on the bulltoad.” Finley sighed, reaching carefully into the box to lift the toad from it, though she stopped just before touching it.

He should have been a pretty shade of gray with light and dark brown splotches of color seemingly splashed across his skin in no real pattern, eyes a pale brown with gold flecks in them.

And while bulltoads were larger than most frogs, he shouldn’t have been _this_ big. He should have been a little larger than one of her fists, but instead he took up most of the box.

There was a familiar curl of wrongness in it too, one that was masked somewhat by the polymorphism spell.

For a moment she thought…but then she saw a glimmer of red in the creature’s eyes and felt her stomach drop.

Even as Dorian was asking if the fellow could understand them as a toad, Finley looked around, pausing when her gaze landed on Dagna. “Do you have gloves?”

“Of course!” Dagna chirped, turning to where she’d set her bags against the wall and rustling through them. When she produced them, Finley held her hands out. “I don’t know that they’ll fit you, Inquisitor.”

“Whoever or whatever this is, they’re tainted with red lyrium,” Finley murmured.

“Then…is this perhaps just a toad after all?” Dalish asked. When Finley frowned her way, pulling the gloves on to find that they really were too small, the elf shrugged. “When you had just a small bit of red lyrium in you, it was nearly impossible for _anyone_ to cast magic on you, remember? How would someone polymorph anything with red lyrium in its system?”

“We’re going to need more of everything to undo the spell, aren’t we?” Dorian was bent over the box opposite Dalish, both of them examining the toad. Dagna had wound around so that she was across from Finley. Of the four of them, she was the only one who seemed more enthused by this twist than anything.

Lifting the toad carefully, Finley glanced toward Dorian before looking back at the little creature in her poorly gloved hands. “I’m not sure.”

The toad’s body was heavier than it should have been, and she felt that pit in her stomach growing.  Looking closer, she could see veins of red spreading down under the frog’s throat and belly and that there were pieces of skin that seemed strained. Its breathing was shallow and labored, desperate sighs coming every second, as though there weren’t room enough in its body for it to fill its lungs the way it should have been able to.

Even if they could change the toad back into whatever it had been, this creature was too far lost to red lyrium to save.

Why would Marcus have sent her this? And Dalish’s question was a good one. How had he been able to polymorph it at all? Why hadn’t the red lyrium negated the spell?

Abruptly, Finley moved to set the frog back in the box. She needed to ask Marcus these questions, to get the message en route as soon as she could. She could borrow a paper from Dagna and—

The change of motion stirred the creature from its miserable half-awareness, and it let out a panicked ribbit before stiffly leaping from her hands, as though its body couldn’t move so well.

Even as Finley floundered to catch the toad, it hit the ground with a sickening crack. It shuddered and fumbled its way to its feet, a shard of red lyrium protruding from one of its shoulders where it must have landed, its skin simply peeled back.

As Finley reached out to try to pick the creature back up, it staggered away from her with surprising speed considering that it had to be in immense pain.

Just as Finley thought the creature might settle down on its own, Dalish attempted a snare spell on it.

There wasn’t even a moment’s pause before the toad was lashing out in every direction, more and more skin tearing back to allow red lyrium to poke through, making it look less and less like an animal and more like a moving ball of crystals.

It flipped itself away from Finley, and oriented itself enough to begin hopping away.

“Shit!” Dorian hissed from behind her, before she heard the scuffing of boots and shuffle of clothes. “Don’t! The lyrium is insanely potent!”

“But, it really doesn’t like magic,” Dagna protested. “And if it’s that dangerous, shouldn’t someone _other_ than the Inquisitor be rounding it up? I mean, she’s kind of important, right?”

Annoyed, Finley glanced over her shoulder at the rest of her party, frowning to see they were still mostly where she’d left them. Well, Dagna had the box in hand, like she might use it to scoop up the frog, though Finley wasn’t sure that would be such a good idea, with the creature agitated as it was.

Even as she opened her mouth say she was fine, a sliver of red lyrium flew past her face, embedding itself in the far wall as a few strands of hair drifted to the floor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Dorian hissed.

Finley turned back toward the frog to see that it’s gaze was focused on her, the red in its eyes glinting stronger than before. One of the pieces of lyrium that had been protruding from its leg was gone.

As she slowly started to rock back, away from it, to get off her hands and knees, the shards on its body quivered, and she froze. She couldn’t remember any of the red templars doing things like this, though very few of the ones she’d fought had had this much of their bodies corrupted with red lyrium.

If she lived through this, she was going to murder Marcus.

Rather than attack again, however, the toad hesitated, let out a forlorn, barely recognizable wail of a croak, and took a shaky step toward her.

It was such a bizarre change in behavior that Finley’s fear disappeared. She leaned closer to it, trying to see if she could recognize who this had been, ignoring when Dorian hissed behind her, “Are you daft?”

Just as she reached out to the creature, her heart wrenching as it took another wobbly step toward her, the door slammed opened, startling the toad so that it jerked back from her, turning toward the noise in frightened bewilderment, shards ready.

Before it could act, a plated greave came down on it with a crackling crunch as Garrett Hawke proclaimed, “If she’s not in here we can always—what’s this then?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	60. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley is overwhelmed with a few unexpected turns of events.

_Sliding down an embankment, Finley carefully trod across the cold ground. Even with winter having subsided almost a month prior, the natural world was reluctant to wake up. The leaves were finally starting to bud, though, and she was seeing more and more creatures beginning to stir._

_She liked spring. Short as it was so far south, it was still one of the most magical times of the year. She’d met another mage who’d claimed she was from the Anderfels originally, where the ground was almost always barren and the heat unbearable all year long. That mage had said that there were places in between where most of the year was like spring, temperatures not too cold or warm, and vibrant greenery stretching on for miles and miles._

_Finley had wanted to see such a place, if only to see if it was really as pretty as the mage claimed. Really, though, she didn’t think anywhere could be better than the Wilds._

_She didn’t mind the cold, and when the trees had unfurled their leaves, it was one of the most beautiful things a person could see. She’d learned that the first time she’d climbed up high to get away from templars. After spending the night precariously perched in the swaying branches of an ancient tree, her fears had been assuaged when the light of dawn washed over her world, showing her just how expansive the woods really were._

_When she was younger, she’d thought the trees went on forever, and that had made her feel safe to think that her beloved canopy would always be there to protect her, even if she did have a few old memories from when she was younger of wide fields._

_As she paused to inspect a branch that looked like it had been damaged during one of the winter storms, a soft hiss came from the shadows to her left. She pretended she didn’t hear it, healing the branch and smiling to herself as the leaves budded and looked like they would open on time with the rest of them._

_There was another hiss, the faintest of thuds._

_This time, Finley turned, keeping her expression as innocent as she could._

_The woods were empty._

_Turning away, she stopped midstep as a giant spider—male based the duller markings on his back—dangled in front of her from the branches overhead, long legs hanging as he twisted his body so that his eyes were looking into hers, fangs twitching._

_Pretending she didn’t see him, Finley shrugged and angled herself a little so that she could walk past him. She’d barely broken even when the spider was on the ground running clumsy circles around her, hissing forlornly._

_Finally, he lurched forward, curling a few legs over her, fangs a whir as he chattered at her desperately._

_Reaching up, she patted one of his longs legs. “Yes, yes. I see you.”_

_Letting her go, the spider skittered in front of her until he was blocking her path and then began chattering again, front legs flailing as though he were telling a story._

_Finley watched the show for a few minutes, content to enjoy whatever it was she was being told—she’d tried to make a spell that would let her talk to animals as well as people, but she couldn’t get it to work, and so she had to settle for understanding basic intent and emotion—before the spider seemed to realize he was having a rather one sided conversation. his legs lowered slightly, gaze fixated on her, and took a tentative step toward her, as though worried she couldn’t see him._

_“I’m sorry,” Finley offered, reaching out and patting the creature’s head, careful not to cover any of his eyes. “I’m just tired, what with my trip a bit unexpected. I was on the coast a week ago, but apparently the templars are doing training exercises or…something. There were almost thirty of them, and I didn’t want to wait around for one of them to pick up on my presence. I’ve barely slept in days. Forgive me for not paying enough attention?”_

_The spider’s front legs landed on her shoulders, and for a second, she thought the creature might try to heave himself up onto her. However, instead, he let out a series of chitters before letting her go._

_“How’s home?”_

_More excited chittering. He knew ‘home’ and spun away at the word, launching himself into the trees and scurrying ahead. After a moment, he lowered himself below the trees so that he could look at her, and she laughed, resuming her pace with a quick heal to banish the aches in her legs from so much walking._

_Donovan was always complaining that she was going to be eaten by something, but Finley wasn’t particularly worried. Her spider, Ser Barnebus, had known her since shortly after hatching, and he knew that she would heal him and tend to him and talk to him. She didn’t travel with him, as she didn’t want the spider to get into a fight with templars and be hurt, but she always liked coming back here._

_It really was a homecoming._

_Just like the other places she returned to with other creatures she’d befriended. It was so…wonderful to be welcomed._

_Her pace hadn’t been fast enough, because abruptly she realized that Ser Barnebus was walking along beside her, long legs moving slowly so as to match her pace._

_Reaching out, she patted one of his legs. “I missed you, too.”_

_A happy hiss was his response._

…-…

He was a little hard to recognize, body mangled as it was, but Finley knew Ser Barnebus when she saw him. The dull brown markings that speckled his abdomen, the central marking that looked like some sort of flower about to bloom. The slightly lighter dusting of dots closer to his head.

Stepping closer, she inspected the spider with care. His body bore the gaping wounds from where the red lyrium had sliced through skin, but the lyrium itself wasn’t visible as it had been on the toad.

Leaning closer, she finally caught a glimmer of red in one of the wounds and felt like time stopped for a second. Ser Barnebus must have been infected with the red lyrium as a spider, and being polymorphed had affected him, but not the amount of red lyrium, making it a more potent dose for such a small body.

The lyrium itself seemed to have been undoing the polymorph on its own, hence why the toad had been so much larger than usual.

As much as she hated Marcus in that moment, she still tried to acknowledge that he probably hadn’t even known the spider was infected when he’d polymorphed him.

Even as she tried to tell herself that this whole, awful thing couldn’t be any _one_ person’s fault, Garrett’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

“Oh, thank the Maker it wasn’t a person.”

For the first time in her life, a curse sprung to mind that would leave Garrett writhing on the floor in agony. It was so surprisingly easy to think of how to turn her magic toward pain.

It wasn’t _one_ person’s fault. It was two.

 _Both_ of them were careless bastards who couldn’t see how much they hurt the world around them, blundering their way through it with little regard to anything but themselves. _Both_ of them deserved to suffer for their callous missteps.

And while one of them was miles away, stealing her home, the other was right here.

“Inquisitor?”

Dagna’s voice caught her attention, and she turned a sharp gaze toward the dwarf.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t help,” she offered, sitting beside her.

Finley managed a single, short nod in response. Her throat was too tight to dare to try to say anything. She abruptly realized her magic was winding around her fingertips, ready to lash out at her whim.

A sting of terror speared through her as she realized how close she was to breaking all her promises to herself.

Never would she take a life. The Inquisition had made her go back on that one. Never would she use blood magic. The mark on her hand crackled, and she shuddered. The others might not say it was blood magic, but it wasn’t good, even if it could close the rifts. And then her last promise to herself: never would she use magic to cause harm.

While a few botched spells had inflicted damage to her surroundings, she’d never had the intent to hurt behind a spell before, and it shook her that she could turn to it so quickly.

This wasn’t her first loss. She’d lost homes, lovers, friends... It was the way of the Wilds. As the Avvar said, nothing was permanent. Everything changed.

So why did this loss hurt _so_ much more?

Was it because her lovers had fallen to damnation through their own choices? Because the rest of it had been lost to things she couldn’t fend off? The Blight, greed, fear…

This though…

Why hadn’t she thought to cast a shield around him? Why hadn’t she done something? She knew so many spells, so many wards. Surely she could have done _something_.

She had protected him during the Blight, so couldn’t she have found a way to protect him from the red lyrium as well? They could have found a cure and…

If Garrett hadn’t stepped on him, she could have saved him.

The bastard deserved to pay for his carelessness.

But not through magic. Never through magic.

Even as she wondered how quickly she could get her hands on a staff and how hard it would be to corner Varric’s dear champion and beat him to death, Dorian sat down on her other side. He glanced to where the discarded box lay, and then looked back at her. “A pet?”

“A friend,” she managed before the tears pricking at her eyes threatened to spill forth.

She sat there another moment until she had control of herself. She would cry for Ser Barnebus later, when she didn’t have an audience. For now, there was much to do. “Dagna, will you…” Her lower lip quivered before she closed her eyes and started again. “Will you retrieve the red lyrium? There are supposedly some two hundred templars with this in their veins, so it would help to know more about its properties. Be careful, though; it can cause a lot of damage to anyone.”

“And we need to know how whoever cast this was able to cast it,” Dalish murmured, her voice a little awkward, as though she wanted to say something else, but didn’t know what.

“I’ll handle that,” Finley mumbled, finally rising to her feet. “Dorian…can you…” She hesitated, finding herself having to fight the urge to cry again. “Can you find somewhere where Dagna can work until the remodeling to the Undercroft is finished? It needs to be somewhere away from templars and mages alike. Everyone, really, considering what the lyrium does.”

“Of course,” he murmured. He seemed to pause a moment before turning to Dagna and telling her to stay put until he returned.

As soon as he was gone, Dalish was asking Dagna what she could do to help. To Finley’s surprise, Bree stepped past her, her usual blasé expression shifting to one of sympathy for a fraction of a second before she stepped up next to Dagna. It took Finley a moment to realize that she must have been the one to tell Garrett where to find them. To show him. Another curl of anger twisted in her. “I’ll help you with the extraction of the lyrium.”

Finley stood there a moment longer, staring at Ser Barnebus, again wondering why she hadn’t had the foresight to cast a barrier around him the second he’d been stepped on. There were so many ways she could have saved him…

Assuming the red lyrium would have allowed any of them to take hold.

It was little consolation that she’d never know.

Abruptly, she needed to be alone, away from all the people that crowded the castle so. For a moment, she thought of making a run for the castle’s bridge, but then she remembered her lonely room at the top of the tower. The one so far away from everything.

As she finally turned away, not even noticing how both dwarves had held off on doing anything to the spider while she was still there, she faced the only person who had yet to say or do anything remotely helpful: Garrett Hawke.

The man still stood in the doorway, mouth slightly open with words dead on his lips, brow scrunched together, looking a little lost.

She wished he _was_ lost.

In a bog or a dragon’s lair without a weapon and three dozen hungry hatchlings.

“I didn’t mean…” he finally whispered as she stepped around him and slipped into the hall. “I’m sorry.”

Finley didn’t even look at him as she started down the hall, pausing when she realized that Dalish had followed her.

The elf shrugged a little when Finley gave her a puzzled look. “Bree said if they needed a mage’s help, they’d get Dorian when he comes back. They didn’t want me getting nicked with that, seeing how volatilely it reacts to magic.” As Finley nodded, Dalish twisted her hands together in front of her, lips dipping down at the corner. “I’m sorry about trying to snare it. If I’d known it was calming down…I just wanted to help.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Finley managed a one shouldered shrug. “But I have a lot of things I need to see to. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course,” Dalish murmured, hands dropping down in front of her, still clasped. “If there’s anything I can do, though, call for me?”

Finley nodded as she turned and hurried through the halls.

Her earlier exploration of the castle proved useful, as she was vaguely familiar with the servants’ passages—enough so that she was able to make it up to that lonely, miserable room they’d given her without running into anyone else.

She stood in the middle of the room, looking around at it as though she’d never seen it before. Everything was so...foreign.

It was nothing like home.

The few places she kept things in the Wilds were always similar with awkward, lopsided bookshelves with old tomes that she’d found in ruins, and papers for spells. Her beds were usually just nests of old blankets she’d traded for, and beyond that…the only thing she really had was a bag with her clothes and someone there to listen to any stories she might have, even if they never understood a word.

There was a wyvern in what she’d learned was south of Orlais who resided near one of her homes, a few bears that shared one of her caves in southern Ferelden. None of them had ever been as close to her as Ser Barnebus. The rest of them were simply wild creatures who might perk up when she was near, might tolerate her presence, but Ser Barnebus had always been so much…more.

He’d been little for a hatchling, the sort of spiderling the others would have likely eaten, as was their way. But she’d liked him. He’d been small and hadn’t fit in and…and so she’d taken him before he could meet a cruel fate and had helped him grow, keeping an eye on him and making sure he was safe. It had been hard to balance her attention to him so that he wasn’t too dependent on her—part of her had wanted to make him a real pet, so have someone to wander with—but she’d considered what was best for him and had let him remain wild.

Mostly wild.  

Taking in a shaky breath, Finley walked over to her desk and took a piece of paper, folding it a few times before cupping her hands around it and hissing, “You killed him.” When she let the paper go, it looked too jagged to be a real bird, but she didn’t care.

Looking around the room, it was too empty, too big. She’d wanted to be alone, but not somewhere so open.

Feeling oddly trapped by the openness of the room, Finley finally moved to the western balcony, feeling a relief at how small it was. Like a ledge on a cliff. Slipping outside, she sat against the wall and curled her legs against herself so that no one coming into the room would be able to see her, and bowed her head.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been like that, trying desperately against all odds to clear her mind and stop replaying Ser Barnebus’ last moments in her head, when she realized she wasn’t alone.

At some point, she must have fallen asleep, because she woke from a dream of watching a storm from her outlook with her spider curled upon himself, legs drawn in to make him look almost like an odd boulder as the winds whipped the rain into sheets and bursts, thunder rumbling overhead.

As she miserably blinked the blur from her eyes, she finally felt something that drew her mind away from her loss.

In the back of her mind, she could feel that awful, familiar prickle of wrongness.

Red lyrium.

Her mind first went to red templars, but there was no way they could have made it into the castle, could they?

Even as she stilled, trying to think of what else might be able to be infected with red lyrium and get so far into the castle, Leliana’s voice called out in the silence.

“Inquisitor? Finley?”

Brow pinching together, Finley took in a slow breath, trying to clear her mind, a new thought forming to shift the blame away from those she’d been willing to curse only hours earlier.

That Ser Barnebus had been corrupted…that was what had killed him, more than any other action, because she couldn’t heal that, and as far along as he was, trying to find a cure wouldn’t have done him any good. Those toxic crystals had been his death sentence.

More importantly, however, this meant that red lyrium was in the Wilds. In her Wilds.

And it was here.

That wrongness kept nettling the edges of her mind, yet Leliana didn’t seem disturbed at all. Surely if anything tainted with the red were here, Leliana would be sounding an alarm.

Standing up, she stepped to the doorway, peering into the room, still puzzled as to why she would feel that wrongness with Leliana present. She found the spymaster standing near the middle of the room, looking around cautiously, a hand resting in what could be considered a casual stance, if one didn’t know that was where she kept her dagger.

One of them, anyway.

“Ah, hello!” A man’s voice drew her attention away from Leliana, and Finley turned to see a stranger standing in her doorway. He was tall for a human, standing a few inches higher than Cullen, with soft, spiky brownish-red hair that poked out over his forehead. His skin was bronze, or had been. There was a sallowness to his cheeks and under his eyes that made him look a little dull, a little sick.

Nevertheless, the skin around his brown eyes crinkled as he stepped forward and offered her a large hand.

Etched onto his breastplate was a warden’s griffon.

“Alistair Theirin, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Her mind blanked.

She’d heard that name before. Even in the Wilds, he was known as the warden who had slain the archdemon. He was a hero. He’d driven the darkspawn back underground, stopped them from consuming all of the Wilds. While she still lamented how much had been lost to the Blight, there had been so much more that could have been lost, and she could still remember asking Donovan if perhaps they might be able to meet him and thank him someday.

Donovan had simply rolled his eyes and asked which city she planned on waltzing into to meet the man and how she expected to get away from the angry mob that would form at the sight of a free mage.

That had put a damper on her dreams, but she’d still found herself quietly thankful to the brave warden Theirin on more than one occasion.

It took her another moment to realize that this must have been Garrett’s friend.

The Hero of Ferelden.

The Hero of Ferelden was friends with one of the worst people she’d ever met.

That made her sniffle, despite herself. Ser Barnebus had survived the damned Blight to be stepped on by the Hero of Ferelden’s inept companion.

“Well, this is a bit awkward,” he let out a nervous laugh, finally withdrawing his hand to scratch at his cheek.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana stated, approaching Finley slowly from one side. “Alistair here may have some information that’s pertinent to Corypheus. We were planning on having a war meeting as soon as we could find you—”

As she spoke, Alistair turned away, stepping back out the door and into the stairway. However, what caught Finley’s attention wasn’t his movements so much as the fact that that wrongness moved with him.

Horror curl inside of her.

This was too much.

First Ser Barnebus’ death, and now a grey warden corrupted with red lyrium?

Not just a grey warden, but the one who had saved them.

Finley stood frozen where she was, eyes wide as she stared at him, mind utterly blank with what she should do or say.

“I knew it was too good to be true when Varric promised me a warm welcome.” 

“Don’t you start,” Leliana murmured, her hint of a smile audible as she walked up next to Finley. “I assure you, inquisitor, Alistair is an old friend, and someone we can trust. With his help—”

“Be careful there, I only said what I’ve learned _might_ be helpful,” Alistair argued, arms crossed across his broad chest. “I think you’re overhyping.”

“Nonsense.”

Even as Leliana started to say something again about a war meeting, Finley darted closer to Alistair, looking over his exposed skin for signs of red veins. She hadn’t been able to heal it before, but she could figure this out. She hadn’t been able to save the other red templars or Ser Barnebus, but she could figure out how to save _him_.

She could.

She would.

His armor made it impossible for her to see, and she let out a frustrated huff. “Take off your clothes.”

Leliana coughed behind her, and Alistair’s eyes went wide before a light dusting of blush settled on his cheeks, and he gave her a tentative smile. “Well, that is closer to what I was promised, but—”

“You’ve been exposed to red lyrium. I have to see how far along it is,” Finley demanded, frowning up at him when he didn’t make a move to follow her order.

Finally, she reached out to take off one of his damned gauntlets herself, only to have Leliana sidle up beside her, gripping her arm and pulling her away. “Inquisitor, I think you are mistaken.”

“I know this feeling. It’s wrong, and it’s _in_ him,” Finley snapped, jerking her hand free without looking at Leliana. “How long ago were you exposed to it? Maybe if we can remove the source before it spreads…”

“I haven’t—” Alistair reached out and tried to catch her hands though, she instinctively darted out of his reach before he could touch her. He stared at her, a little bewildered—both of he and Leliana were watching her as though she were mad. “I haven’t been exposed to red lyrium.”

“You _must_ have been,” Finley argued, that terror in her growing. She couldn’t be wrong about this. She knew this wrongness. It was ingrained in her memory. A familiar break. “Perhaps it nicked you without you noticing or was slipped into your food or…” The ways that lyrium could get into someone suddenly seemed infinite, each method more horrifying than the last. For the first time in a long time, she couldn’t breathe.

Leliana had stepped between them, her expression unreadable. “Inquisitor. Finley, please. You must calm down—”

“He is sick!” Finley cried out, pointing accusingly at Alistair. “He’s sick. And _you_ might not care if he dies, but _I_ do. We can _save_ him. We…” Save have him like she couldn’t save the others. Couldn’t save Ser Barnebus. Her throat constricted, and she snapped her mouth shut, catching part of the inside of her cheek with her teeth.

The taste of blood made her nauseous, and she silently healed her cut, trying to swallow down the metallic taste quickly.

Even as Leliana glanced back at Alistair, clearly confused, something seemed to click for him. His expression softened from his earlier bewilderment. “I’ve never been exposed to red lyrium.” He stepped up past Leliana and motioned toward the stairs. “Will you give us a moment?”

Finley couldn’t believe it.

He knew. He _knew_ something was wrong with him.

Despite looking like she didn’t quite trust the situation, Leliana gave them a nod and walked out of the room, her footsteps silent before she’d even disappeared down the stairs. Finley doubted she’d go far, but that hardly mattered.

Gaze flitting back to Alistair, his head dipped slightly as he appraised her carefully. “You say you feel a wrongness in me.”

“It’s smothering,” Finley said a bit too harshly. Gulping down the urge to panic, she motioned to him. “You’re sick.”

He hesitated a moment before finally nodding. “It’s a sacrifice that grey wardens have to make,” Alistair offered, voice gentle. “It’s a conscious decision. We aren’t supposed to talk about it with people outside the Order, so I really can’t say more, but please don’t worry over me. I’m not infected with red lyrium.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Finley snapped, her panic bubbling back up. “I recognize this. It’s not some random ailment. It’s familiar! I know this. I’ve dealt with it before! It’s—”

And suddenly, she had her own moment where everything snapped into place.

The reason red lyrium felt familiar, the reason that she’d been so frustrated with not being able to figure out where she’d dealt with it before.

“It’s the Blight.”

Even as Alistair murmured something about it not quite being what she thought, her eyes widened.

“It’s the Blight,” she repeated slowly, brow pinching together. “If they’re connected, they’ll infect people in similar manners and…” Her gaze snapped back to him and then she moved around him, to the stairs where Leliana was waiting. “I have to go back to the Wilds.”

“What?” Leliana started toward her, only to pivot as Finley hurried down the steps past her. “Finley, might I ask why?”

“I have notes on the Blight,” Finley stated, not bothering to look back and see if they were keeping up. “It’s what I’ve spent the last ten years researching. It’s why I was at the Conclave to begin with.”

There was a sudden clamor behind her, the sharp steps of metal greaves and then Alistair was next to her. “You were researching the Blight? By yourself?”

“I wanted to find a cure,” Finley murmured, turning sharply, “We found a few ways to stave off its effects, but we hadn’t found a cure yet when…” She held up her hand, bile in her throat. “When this happened.”

“The Blight is dangerous.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Finley abruptly whirled around, staring up at Alistair as she considered the different places she’d left her notes. While most of them were fairly comprehensive, her most accurate notes had been lost years ago when… “Come with me.”

“What?” He stumbled to a stop.

“To the Wilds.” As Leliana caught up to them, Finley motioned vaguely in the direction of her home. “The closest we ever got to curing the Blight is…hard to reach. Due to the Blight. We basically gave up on recovering those notes and tried to recreate them, but if you come with me…you can fight tainted creatures, yes?”

“You mean like bereskarn?” Alistair asked, shifting his weight a little.

Finley hesitated, cringing at the thought of the twisted creatures, bears with their flesh rotting and corrupted, jagged spikes poking out unnaturally through their fur…

Like red lyrium had done out of the red templars.

Bereskarn didn’t have red in their coloring though, did they?

As she began to walk again, she realized she hadn’t answered his question and nodded. “Among others. I’m fairly certain I can lead us there and avoid the worse ones.”

“Worse than a blighted bear?”

“It’s the Wilds, not the Hinterlands,” Finley muttered, the panic in her dying somewhat as she lost herself to thoughts of what paths to take. “And if you come with me, I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t get worse.”  

“Well, about that—”

“You can tell me on the road.” Finley clasped his hand, trying not to shiver at the way she could practically _feel_ the wrongness crawling across her skin. She tried not to let go of him too quickly, but couldn’t help but jerk away a little. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” She straightened up a little. “Warden Blackwall can come, too.”

At that, Alistair’s brow pinched together. “There’s…another warden here?”

“Yes,” Finley felt a little bit more like herself as she nodded, though she couldn’t quite shake the hurt that came every time her mind wound back to her spider. If she’d made the connection between red lyrium and the Blight sooner, maybe she could have…

“We found him in Ferelden, when all the other wardens were disappearing,” Leliana said quickly to Alistair, before addressing Finley. “You cannot simply leave right this instant. You’ve barely been back two weeks.”

“And I’m sure the demons at the rifts and everything else is just waiting for me to learn how to hold my butter knife,” Finley quipped. “I won’t be ‘trespassing’ to anger any foreign indignities—”

“Dignitaries,” Leliana corrected, frown in place.

“—or whatever else people are _afraid_ I’ll do wrong. I’ll be going home. I know the rules there, and if I offend anyone, it will be intentionally.”

Alistair bit his lip as though trying to hide a smile at that, and Finley eyed him, wondering what she’d said that he found so amusing. Even as Leliana started to argue, Alistair coughed into his hand and shrugged. “She is the one in charge, isn’t she?”

As Leliana gave him a sharp look, Finley stood a little straighter. “I am. And I’m going.”

Taking in a slow breath, Leliana turned to Finley, expression neutral. “At least wait until the morning so that we can prepare supplies and get you a proper guard.”

“A guard will be useless in the Wilds.”

“They’ll probably just end up hexed by a witch,” Alistair added.

Rolling her eyes slowly toward him, Finley couldn’t help the twinge of annoyance that ran through her. “You believe in witches.”

“I’ve met Flemeth,” Alistair replied without missing a beat, a grin spreading across his lips.

That…was not so impossible, really.

Nevertheless, she’d taken a rather firm stance on witches not being real already, and so she crossed her arms. “Believe what you like, but no one’s going to be hexed. They’d be more likely to get eaten by something than anything else.” She looked back at Leliana, “And whatever ate them would have a right to, with them tromping through their territory and being a general pain.”

“And how long is this adventure going to take?” Alistair asked, letting the subject of witches slide. He didn’t bother to hide his smile now. She wished she could smile back, but the events of the day were still too heavy on her mind.

“Considerably longer if you don’t come with me.”

“You will need to bring at least a few others with you as well,” Leliana protested. “We cannot just let you run off into Maker knows where when there are red templars and a mage army who would be more than happy to strike you down.” Despite readying a protest, Leliana motioned down the steps. “Let us have a proper war meeting to discuss this. We will need to know where you are going and how to find you, should a problem arise.”

…-…

Despite her resolve to make haste, once she’d been roped into talking logistics of what should have been a simple journey, and had had to stand around, listening to her advisors bicker about how long she could ‘afford’ to be gone, it had given her time to start thinking about things other than her notes.

Her mind wandered between Ser Barnebus and the templars who had succumbed to that wretched red and the fact that the Blight was corrupting the very man she’d idolized for the last decade.

It wasn’t fair.

Heroes were supposed to win, not meet grisly ends. Not die slowly.

After the war meeting had ended, she’d darted out before anyone could ask any more of her for the evening—dodging down a side corridor to avoid Garrett and Varric when she saw them—and had made her way to the rafters in the kitchen, where she’d stored her story book.

Even that hadn’t been able to bring her any comfort, though, her mind knowing the tales too well to really concentrate on them.

Instead, she’d find herself staring at a page while she wondered how she could have done things differently so that she could have healed red lyrium.

Once or twice she considered that no one else seemed able to cure it either—Solas had done a decent job with her, but even he had professed that there had been a fair amount of luck in her surviving—but overall it didn’t make her feel better.

After all, she’d dedicated herself to trying to cure the Blight for ten years.

It had always bothered her. The Blight was supposed to be a pestilence sent to punish the sins of humankind, so why did it have to hurt everything?

There had been an old grove of ancient trees near where she lived years ago that had been the most amazing things. They were impossibly old, and there had been magic in them. She’d discovered them first a few years after she’d met Donovan, and she had fallen in love instantly.

The magic in them swirled to life in odd patterns, lighting up their white bark and making them glow, even in the light of day.

It was one of the first times she’d seen actual magic just existing in the world, not controlled by anyone or anything, and for the first time, she’d felt natural herself. If trees could be magical, then there was no way it could be a curse, as so many templars spat.

She was right and belonged, just as much as those ancient trees.

When the Blight had come, it had infected their roots, that poison seeping up from the ground itself and tainting one of the purest things Finley had ever known. She’d felt like a part of herself was dying when she’d found those ancient testaments to time withering, limbs breaking under their own weight as their bark rotted off.

Even the magic had shifted to a dull rusted color, turning the poor light they still emanated ominous.

She’d been so angry. If humans had sinned, then punish them, damn them into the void, but not everything else. How was it right for creatures and things that had never done wrong to suffer for what humans had done?

Finley hadn’t intended to cure the Blight in people, per se, but to save her Wilds. She’d wanted to bring back just a little of what had been lost.

There had been a few times where she and a few others had felt like they were getting close, but they had always hit some sort of block, especially after the catastrophe near the edge of the Blighted lands. She’d mentioned it to Alistair, but she’d have to explain more of what had happened once they were in the Wilds.

He would likely be displeased.

Assuming he lived long enough to be disappointed.

The Blight was so strong in him; it made her sick.

If the Maker cared for anyone, it should have been the heroes who slew the archdemons. Surely they proved to be worth _His_ divine love.

Bitterness curled in her at the thought, mixing with her depression and desperation.

With everything tumbling through her brain, she’d taken to wandering the castle, quietly slipping past guards and the like so that she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

Before she knew it, she found herself standing in Cullen’s office. The lights were out, though she could hear movements overhead, so she knew he wasn’t asleep yet.

It wasn’t fair that everything always fell apart…

It wasn’t…

Without much thought, she climbed the ladder, pulling herself easily up into his room. A single candle sat beside his bed, and he stood near it, tugging his shirt over his head. When it was still around his arms, he glanced back, hearing the floor creak beneath Finley’s feet.

The candlelight accented his muscles, and she wanted more than anything to run her fingers over his skin. She wanted there to be something good in her life, even if it was fleeting.

She wanted him.

As he jerked his shirt back on, she felt strangely betrayed.

Ridiculous, that. He’d made it plain he wasn’t interested, hadn’t he?

So why was she still here? Why had she come to him at all?

After all, even if she did care for him, he’d just end up leaving her in the end, like everyone else.

“Inquisitor?” As she blinked, she realized that he was standing in front of her, one hand outstretched as though he might take her hand, but wasn’t sure.

Her next breath shuddered through her body as she fought back the whispers that came with loneliness. “Commander.”

“Are you alright?” Cullen stepped closer to her, brow pinched together, amber eyes searching hers for some hint.

Even as she opened her mouth to dismiss his worry, she found she couldn’t. With a sniffle, she shook her head, embarrassed as she felt tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. “No.”

And with that word, she finally burst out sobbing.

As she reached to cover her face, horrified that despite her efforts, she couldn’t stop herself from falling apart in front of him, she felt his hands cup her face, thumbs gently brushing at her cheeks before he stepped up to her and put his arms around her.

She felt small and helpless as her body shuddered with each sob, like she might literally fall apart, leaving only emptiness left. She wished she was stronger than she was, that she could take all these changes and revelations and losses without turning into a miserable pile of tears.

She wished she were strong like Cullen, and the fact that he didn’t reciprocate her feelings just made her cry harder. It made her want to turn away from him, to not need him, and yet…even in that, she couldn’t find the strength.

He didn’t ask her to say what had happened, didn’t demand an explanation.

Through all of it, he simply held her.

When she’d finally stopped crying, his arms were still around her, one hand stroking her hair as she clung to him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, face pressed into his shoulder.

When she found her voice again, she mumbled into his shirt, “Why is life so unfair?”

She heard a response catch in his throat, and he squeezed her closer, resting his cheek against her head. “I don’t know.”

“Every time I—” She cut herself off before she could bemoan her misfortunes. She tried to remind herself that there was more good in her life than bad, even if the last few months had been more miserable than not, and she knew if she began complaining, she might never stop. Instead, she took in a breath and held it, held Cullen. When she let it out, she reluctantly loosened her grip on him, pulling back enough so that she could look up at him.

As she did so, he wiped at her cheeks with his sleeve, giving her a gentle smile that made her heart melt.

“I want you,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

He froze a moment, staring down at her, mouth half open in a response that wouldn’t come.

Flinching at his silence, Finley pulled away. “I’m sorry. I know you aren’t interested. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll just—”

He caught her arm before she could turn to the ladder, pulling her back to him, head bent as he used his other hand to cradle the nape of her neck and kiss her. It took her by such surprise that she didn’t fully realize what was happening until he was pulling away from her, his own apology on his lips.

She chased his kiss, arms slipping up around his neck as she stood on her tiptoes to reach him. He was surprised as she’d been, though he recovered quicker, leaning back down so that she could reach him more easily as their lips molded against one another’s.

For a moment, she was certain this was another dream, but when they broke for breath, he looked down at her, thumb tracing her cheek, and she could feel that muted prickle of a templar’s gaze.

This was real.

She almost started crying again as she kissed his jaw and he moved to meet her, lips catching the corner of her mouth.

She needed this so much, needed him, and without a thought, she lost herself to the feel of his touch and the taste of his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you think :3


	61. A Night to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries to comfort Finley. Very NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to slothquisitor for beta reading this chapter!

When Cullen first kissed Finley, she’d been so still that he’d been sure he’d misunderstood what she’d said. However, even as he’d apologized, cheeks burning as he tried to think how to fix their situation, she’d dismissed all his fears and doubts with a kiss of her own.

From there, it was as though a fire had been lit inside of him, and he’d been desperate to commit the shape of her lips, the feel of her skin under his roaming hands, all of it to memory.

He forgot everything else, that he was her commander, that she was supposedly both a witch and Andraste’s chosen, that there were so many differences between them that pursuing such an affair might not be wise.

Instead, all he could think of was her and how she felt pressed against him.

He pulled her back to his bed, falling against it so that he was sitting on the edge. When they broke for breath, he jerked his shirt off, thinking only that it was in his way.

She slid into his lap without coaxing, pressing herself against him again, one hand in his hair as the other cradled his neck. He met her passion with his own, an arm wrapping around her waist and anchoring her to him as he kissed her.

When she rocked her hips against him, he just about went mad.

A little voice in the back of his mind whispered that this was happening rather quickly, that perhaps he should slow things down. It wouldn’t do to move too quickly, when they were just coming to terms with how they felt for one another.

When she rolled her hips again, biting his lower lip and then moving to leave a trail of kisses down his neck, he completely forgot all of that.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, other hand still splayed against her lower back, he pulled her shirt away from her neck and kissed the exposed skin, relishing the taste of her. She let out a soft moan, and he felt heat raging in him.

She smelled of freshly broken twigs and rain, and he wanted nothing more than to be lost in her, in every way possible.

His hands went to the hem of her shirt, and she paused, lifting her arms so that he could pull the cloth away from her. When it was tossed aside, he pulled her close again, kissing her and letting his tongue run across her lower lip, thrilled when she opened her mouth to him, tongue caressing his.

Trailing his fingers up over her spine, he hesitated when he reached her breast strap. Pulling back so that his forehead rested against hers, he listened to her gasps for breath for a moment, enjoying the feel of her against him.

“Keep going,” Finley murmured, brushing her nose against his, her voice a soft, but resolute plea.

He didn’t need a second invitation.

As he cast aside her breast strap, she moved from his lap, and he almost protested until he saw she was slipping out of the rest of her clothes. He took advantage of her absence to tug off his own, barely getting them to his knees before she was on his lap again, arms around him, mouth and body both pressed to his.

He took in a shaky breath as she rocked herself against him again. He was already hard, and the feel of her skin against him drove him wild. How many nights had he woken from dreams like this, riddled with guilt that he was playing out fantasies with a woman who might not even want such affections.

To have those fears banished, that guilt assuaged, was like divine providence, something he didn’t deserve, but couldn’t bring himself to turn away.

Maker, how he’d wanted this. Wanted her.

Abruptly, he gripped her around the waist and rolled them so that they were more on the bed and he was on top of her. He kissed her once more, feeling as though every inch of him that touched her was on fire. This was so much better than any dream could ever be.

After another break for breath, he began to move down, planting open kisses on her neck and then her collarbone. She moaned again, writhing under him, finger nails scraping his scalp. He smiled against her soft skin, breathing in her intoxicating scent and basking in the way she touched him, as though she’d been wanting him as long as he’d wanted her.

It felt so surreal and completely and utterly perfect.

As he cupped her breast and stroked her skin with a calloused thumb, relishing the sounds she made in response, one of the doors to his office below banged open, and he heard an all too familiar voice.

“Commander!”

Cullen stilled where he was, mind trying to put together what had just happened and who in the Maker damned void would be bothering him at this hour. Finley’s breath caught softly.

“Commander? I’m sorry to bother you when you’re sleeping, but…”

Hands sounded softly as they gripped the rungs of his ladder.

Jerking to his feet, he nearly tripped over his pants which were still bunched around his calves, though he jerked them up quickly, not bothering to tie them into place so that they hung low on his hips. “What?”

The word rang out harshly, though he couldn’t be bothered to care.

When he came to stand at the top of his ladder, he could see that same scout that had interrupted him when he was trying to talk to Finley before, earlier in the day, already halfway up.

The man looked a little lost and a little frightened as he stared up at Cullen, though as Cullen’s brow dipped down, he finally found his voice. At the same time, he started back down the ladder. “Ser Barris has returned from Denerim, ser. Ambassador Josephine wanted to speak with the Inquisitor about what he has to say, but she can’t find her, so she was hoping you might help look, since you seem to have a better feel for her than most.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if Finley’s groan was loud enough for the scout to hear, but he definitely caught it, pausing to glance over and see that she’d covered the top half of her face with an arm, a frown replacing her earlier smile. The rest of the view was rather picturesque, and he almost forgot he was talking with someone, half ready to go back to her when he realized he was being watched.

“Tell Josephine that our Inquisitor needs her rest. She can discuss it in the morning.” When the scout didn’t leave the bottom of his ladder, Cullen narrowed his eyes again. “Is there a problem?”

“W-well, she said you might say that, but…”

“But?”

“Last time, the Inquisitor left so quickly. She was worried she might not catch her in the morning.”

Cullen closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, willing himself not to throw something at the scout, and then looked back down, a tepid smile in place. “I’ll make sure to catch her before she leaves.”

While the scout looked as though he might want to argue further, he finally just nodded. “Good night, then, Commander. I hope you…sleep…well.” The last word was uttered as he bolted out the nearest door and off into the night.

Once they had further repairs under way, he was really going to need to get locks for those doors.

Taking in a slow breath, he turned back to Finley to see she was lying on his bed, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him, a half smile in place as she bit her lower lip. As he walked back toward the bed, she sat up slowly to meet him, head tilted as she let her gaze wander appreciatively down his body. “I need my rest?”

Cullen hesitated when he was standing in front of her. Despite having used it as an excuse, it was true enough. She would be traveling a long ways, presumably, and the last thing he wanted was her falling off her horse because he’d been too selfish to let her sleep. “I…you really do.”

The words rang with defeat.

Finley’s gaze wandered so painfully slowly back to his, that his breath caught in his throat twice before she met his stare with one that he couldn’t read. Carefully, she reached out, lightly taking hold of the top of his pants and pulling him a step closer. “I can think of a way that I’ll sleep _very_ well tonight.”

Cullen felt that fire in him stirring again as he watched her, her gaze never leaving his. “Are you sure?”

She raised up onto her knees, slipping her arms around his neck as she pulled herself flush to him, her breasts pressing against his chest. Pulling him down, she kissed his ear and then his jaw, moving painfully slowly to his chin and then pausing. “I suppose if _you_ want to call it a night—”

He didn’t remember kicking off his pants or getting back on the bed. Instead, his ears were filled with the sound of her laughing, and his mind with the feel of her body underneath his.

When his hand slid down between her legs, he found she was already wet and wanting, and her kisses were more urgent as he circled her clit gently with his thumb.

“I want you…” The last word trailed off into a whimper as she moved against his ministrations, head tilting back as she gasped. “Cullen.”

His name had barely been a whisper on her lips, but he’d never heard it said more beautifully, and instantly he was kissing every inch of her he could reach as they rocked their hips together, building friction between them.

Moving his hand back down, he took hold of himself as she wrapped one of her legs around his hip, and angled himself to enter her. When he paused, looking at her to be sure this was what she wanted, she stroked one of his cheeks, kissing him as her other hand went down to join his, guiding him inside of her.

Just being inside of her was indescribable, and he held himself there a moment, savoring the feel of her around him before beginning slow thrusts with his hips.

There was a short, awkward moment before they found their rhythm, bodies entwined, breath mingling as they gasped and gripped one another, desperate to be as close as they could.

When she finally came undone, she arched into him, her cry soft and fingers digging into his back.

He followed her soon after, his world shattering with ecstasy.

When he came back down, he was still over her, gasping for breath as she was, arms half curled around her. He lay there another moment before pressing a kiss to her jaw and then pushing himself up and sprawling out on the bed beside her. Looking back at her, he reached out to gently brush his fingers against her cheek.

Her chest heaved along with his, body glistening in the dim light with sweat.

Maker, he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

She turned her head toward him, pressing a chaste kiss to the backs of his knuckles and then reaching up and taking his hand. “Well, commander? Do you have a better _feel_ of me than most?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I suppose I do, don’t I?” Sitting up, he hesitated, letting himself drink in the sight of her again before motioning toward the pillows. “We should, uh, probably…”

Finley rolled over, eyeing him with a half-smile in place. “Is that my invitation to stay?”

Cullen felt heat creeping into his cheeks, despite everything they’d just done. “I-I’m not going to just kick you out or—”

She interrupted him with a gentle kiss before slipping under the bedsheets and shuffling over to make room for him. “I’m teasing you.”

Slipping under the covers after her, he was thrilled when she curled up next to him as soon as he’d settled down. Wrapping an arm around her, he smiled and snuggled down closer to her. For the first time in a long time...maybe even forever, he felt like his life was right.

For once, he was exactly where he needed to be.

…-…

Cullen lay in bed, staring up at the hole in his ceiling, half sure that he was dreaming. His thumb traced gentle circles against Finley’s shoulder as she slept beside him, one arm slung across his chest and head on his shoulder, her chest rising and falling peacefully.

Despite what he’d said to her, he hadn’t been able to fall asleep himself, instead going over the night over and over in his mind, if only to assure himself that he really was holding the woman he cared for.

He felt her stir, fingers curling gently against his skin and her breathing changing ever so slightly.

“Finley?” When she let out a soft hum of a reply, he hesitated and then allowed himself a selfish question. “Does it have to be you who goes to the Wilds? I could send soldiers. Or Leliana could send someone.”

“Mmmm, no,” Finley murmured against him, shaking her head, but not lifting it. Sleep still hung heavily on her words as she added, “It’d be like my bag. Impossible to find for anyone else.”

“Why now, though?”

She was silent for so long that he thought she’d fallen back to sleep, when her voice finally cut through the darkness, any hints of sleep gone from it. “I think Corypheus is going to start another Blight.”

Cullen stilled the circles he’d been tracing on her shoulder. “You’re sure?” He hesitated a second, thinking through what they’d seen. “Because of his archdemon?”

“Because of the red lyrium,” Finley buried her face against him a moment before shaking her head and sitting up, her hair more of a wild mess than usual as it fell in tangles around her. “It’s wrong. It’s…I can’t explain it. It’s like the Blight. I think it might _be_ the Blight. I don’t know. It’s…we can’t let it spread like it is. We have to get rid of it.”

“We’ll look into it, I promise,” Cullen offered, feeling helpless despite his assurances. If red lyrium was really related to the Blight…

Maker, help them.

“It’s not fair.”

He was pulled from his thoughts as Finley picked at a lock of hair. He saw her brow pinch together and thought she might comment on it for a second before she simply put her hands over her face, taking in a ragged breath. “Alistair _stopped_ the Blight. It’s _supposed_ to be over. We’re _supposed_ to be safe. It isn’t…fair.”

Cullen sat up beside her, moving to slip an arm around her waist as he pulled her to him, though it didn’t feel like it was nearly enough. Even as he scrambled for something to say, Finley took in a ragged breath and began to talk again.

“I had a home.” She was quiet for a moment. “It was little and cold and far enough south that the templars never swept through. The Chasind either didn’t know we were there, or they didn’t care. They left us alone, and we left them alone. We were happy, we were safe.”

She trailed off, her hands slowly falling away from her face to rest on the blankets bunched up around her waist. Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. Her gaze was focused on Cullen’s bed sheets, not really seeing her surroundings as memories swept up. “Everything was so…perfect. And then one of the Chasind came stumbling into our garden, bloodied and terrified, speaking so quickly we could barely understand him.” She paused and shook her head, correcting herself. “Well, I could. He never really picked up the language.”

Cullen felt an odd curl in his stomach as she referred to whoever she’d been with. That she’d shared a home with them meant they’d been close, and the pain in her voice was so…heartbreaking.

“He died, the Chasind man.” Finley’s hands found their way back to her hair as she fidgeted. “I wasn’t as good of a healer then. We went to see what had happened. We hoped it was just that the man was mad or that he’d lost to a wild animal or…” Her voice wavered and nearly broke as she finished, “The darkspawn were coming out in droves. Marching.”

Cullen watched her, gaze slowly lowering to the expanse of blankets covering their legs. He’d known she was from the Wilds, known that the Blight had started out there, and yet he’d never really thought about how that might have affected her. It reminded him just how little he actually knew of her.

Even so, he found himself pulling her closer to him, wishing that that action alone was enough to banish her sadness.

“We lost our home, and had to flee. So many were displaced, so much was lost,” Finley whispered, turning a little so that she could rest her head against his shoulder. “There were creatures who had lived for ages and the Blight claimed them. There were these old trees that I’d always loved…the Blight took everything, and I was left so…alone.”

Cullen wanted to ask about the person she’d been with, the one she’d mentioned, but didn’t. He didn’t want to make her think he was prying or to make her relive what couldn’t be a pleasant story.

He finally settled for resting his head against hers. “I’m sorry.”

“There can’t be another Blight.”

“We’ll do whatever we can,” Cullen assured her. “We’ll stop Corypheus and—”

“I don’t want to fight him,” Finley whispered. Even as Cullen blinked, she twisted in his arms so that she could look up at him. “You never saw him, but he was a monster. He was…everything that’s wrong. Corrupted magic, corrupted flesh, evil. He _is_ the Blight.”

She brought her left hand up to her chest, her other hand rubbing it gently. “He picked me up like I was nothing, and I could feel all the corruption in him.”

“Like the red lyrium?” Cullen asked, barely able to keep himself from reaching out to hold her hands.

“No,” Finley shook her head, staring down toward the blankets. “No…if he’d felt like the red lyrium, I would have pieced together that the red lyrium and Blight were connected sooner.” She frowned at herself. “I should have anyway. He’s a darkspawn. They corrupt everything, ruin _every_ thing. Drive people to…” She trailed off a moment before whispering, “He was so much worse. With the Blight, you can feel whatever it was supposed to be being corrupted, same with the red lyrium. With him…if there was ever anything human, anything pure or good inside of him, it’s gone. Completely and utterly gone.”

“You shouldn’t have had to face that alone,” Cullen murmured, guilt spearing through him. “I’m so…sorry.”

It felt like that was all he could say.

It took him by surprise when Finley reached out and caught one of his hands, lacing her slender fingers with his, pressing her palm against his. “Do you think…maybe there’s a way that we can beat him without having to…face him? You know a lot about tactics. Maybe we could lure him somewhere and…start another avalanche or something?”

Cullen squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking the back of her palm. “Well, if the opportunity presents itself, we’ll certainly try.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

A small smile graced her lips, though it was gone far too quickly. “I have our arcanist looking at some samples of red lyrium now.” Cullen barely got a chance to wonder when they’d gotten an arcanist when she kept going. “I’m…I’m going to get more samples of red lyrium so she can look at them. Maybe, knowing that it’s related to the Blight, we can find a way to…contain it? Repel it…? Something.”

“It will be dangerous to keep here, but if it will help us, I certainly see the merit to it.”

“We’ll keep it in the Undercroft, so we’ll need to let the templars know not to go there,” Finley reasoned. She was moving her thumb across his hand as well, and he was surprised at how oddly comforting such a small touch was. He hoped he could bring her as much comfort.

“I’ll discuss this with Ser Barris, Ser Yorric, and Ser Rylen. We’ll make sure no one who’s likely to fall prey to its song gets exposed to it.”

She nodded and silence fell between them for a few moments, the two of them simply sitting there, holding hands.

“Did you hear a song?”

“What?”

“When you were near the red lyrium?” Finley clarified. “I remember seeing you get hurt…It’s not clear…everything was…red. But…”

“Yes,” Cullen murmured. He closed his eyes, though that merely brought the memory of that song, and of the blue song ringing up into his ears. He opened his eyes and found Finley watching him carefully, worried. “It was beautiful, and I wanted nothing more than to be part of it.”

“I heard screaming.” Finley replied. “When I got scratched with it. It was like a cacophony of voices screaming in pain, wanting the world to hurt the way they did.”

“The song never seems to go well with magic,” Cullen murmured, without really thinking about it.

As soon as he said it, he wondered if he should have, but Finley simply nodded, thoughtful. “Do you think it will be okay to bring red lyrium here? Should we find somewhere else to study it?”

Cullen considered her question for a moment before nodding. “I think it will be fine. I’ve heard that most of our templars don’t have a problem resisting its song, if they’re not around it too long.”

The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“But it affected you,” Finley protested, brow pinching together. She appraised him carefully. “You’re stronger than most of them. If you can’t…”

Her words trailed off into a silence that he would have liked to let reign, but instead, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“When I left the Templar Order, I stopped taking lyrium.” He pulled his hand free so that he could fall back onto the bed, staring up at the hole in his ceiling. “I…they use lyrium as a way to keep templars leashed to the Chantry, and after everything, I wanted to be free, so I stopped taking it. It calls to me, though, and there are times when I want it so…badly.”

“It leashes you…?”

“You’ve probably noticed that templar abilities are much stronger right after we’ve consumed lyrium,” Cullen explained, daring a glance at her. She’d started to move after him, but had stopped herself short, as though she didn’t know if she should. After all, he’d been the one to pull away.

“I have.”

“Well, they give it to us so that we can combat magic, but it’s also highly addictive.” Cullen brought his hand up to his forehead, to press against the headache that was threatening to surface there. “Without it…templars can die. Our abilities are...”

Weaker.

Were they, though?

He hadn’t really tried to use his abilities since he’d quit using lyrium. Part of him was afraid that he would see just how much he had lost.

And another part of him was afraid he’d be able to use them just as well.

That the lyrium would prove to have little effect on his performance.

“You could die?”

Finley’s voice was a broken quiver. When he looked at her, he saw panic in her eyes. It was unlike any of the fears he’d seen grip her before, and he sat up, reaching out and lightly letting one of his hands trail down her back.

“I won’t.”

“You just said—”

“It can happen,” Cullen admitted, glancing around as though he might find something lying about that would help him with what he was trying to say. Of course there was nothing. “But I won’t let myself be leashed like that. No more.” He paused before adding, “Cassandra knows. If I am unable to fulfill my role as commander, she’s agreed to help me find a replacement. But until then, I will serve—”

Rather abruptly, he was encircled in two thin arms, his face pressed against Finley’s collarbone as she held him. His mind blanked, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“You can’t die,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll…I can heal you. If it gets bad, I’ll help.” At that, she let go of him, dropping back to her knees in front of him, gaze searching his for something. “Is that why you get headaches?”

“…Yes.”

“I can help with that. I can’t make them go away permanently, but I can help numb them…” She hesitated, magic starting to flicker to life on her fingertips only to fade away almost as quickly. “But I won’t be here for the next…while. I could…I know herbal teas. I can leave you the recipes and you can have someone make them for you. Adan or….”

As she spoke, she looked around his room for paper and started to get out of bed to help the search.

Cullen caught her without thinking, hands cupping her face and drawing her closer to him. “Finley.” She’d still been murmuring about the different things she could make that might help. “I told you before, didn’t I?” When her brow pinched together, he gave her a gentle smile, thumb brushing her cheek. “If I need help, I’ll ask. And if it happens when you’re not here, I’ll ask Adan.”

“Promise?”

“As always,” he offered with another smile.

She abruptly leaned forward again, head resting on his shoulder, arms slipping around him, holding him firmly to herself.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Between you and Alistair and…everyone, it feels like. Everyone’s…sick. Is it even a sickness?”

However, rather than answer her question, Cullen’s brow pinched together. Now that he thought of it, she’d mentioned Alistair by name before, hadn’t she? While he’d heard the man was here, he hadn’t heard that he was ill. Cullen hesitated, trying not to narrow his eyes as he watched her. “Alistair. Alistair…Theirin?”

“The grey warden who killed the archdemon,” Finley clarified. She sounded like she might cry.

At the mere thought of the man.

“He’s not well, either,” Finley whispered. “It’s not right that someone who saved us all from the Blight would be sick like that. I…I don’t know how to help him get better, either.”

So her fear hadn’t been just for him, but in being overwhelmed that there were more than one person who she couldn’t help.

Cullen tried to push aside the oddly crushed sensation in his chest, like someone had punched a hole through him, making it hard to breathe.

After all, he was the one she was curled up with, the one she’d sought comfort in, wasn’t he?

Or had that been all she’d sought? Reprieve from an overwhelming sense of helplessness?

He certainly knew what it was like to seek another out in desperation rather than desire. But her lips against his hadn’t felt…

He wanted to ask her what this was, what they were, if it meant what he wanted it to mean, but he didn’t want to ruin what they had. It frustrated him and made him again feel helpless himself, until she squeezed her arms around him.

“Before I go, I’ll write down the recipes for Adan.” She hesitated, slowly bringing one of her hands back to his chest and running her fingers gently through his light dusting of chest hair. “If you want, I won’t say they’re for you. I’ll just tell him they’re for if people need them.”

The moment she started talking, part of him wanted to protest, but there was such sincerity in her voice, such concern. Cupping her chin, he tilted her head up and kissed her, long and slow.

When he finally pulled away, he leaned his forehead against hers. He’d intended to tell her not to bother, but her eyes pleaded with him silently, and he found himself smiling faintly as he brushed some of her hair away from her face. “Alright. Thank you.”

A hopeful spark lit in her eyes as she nodded. “When I get back, I’ll take a proper look at you.”

“I think you’ve already had a proper look,” he teased, a hand squeezing her hip. Even as she rolled her eyes—he could swear there was a bit of mischief in them for a split second—he lay back down pulling her with him. “Come then. You’ve a long trip today, and there’s a few hours yet before the world needs you.”

She seemed ready to argue a moment before snuggling down and curling against him again. “As you say, commander.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that, tugging the covers back up over them and finally falling asleep to the soft sound of her breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments! 
> 
> As you probably know, I don't usually write smut, so I'd be happy to know what you think.


	62. Precious, Painful Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole tries to help the people around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to write from Cole's PoV this time, so this chapter is a bit different from the others.

It _hurts_.

An itch in the back of the mind, a spider’s legs ghosting against skin. The feel of it gets worse if dwelt on.

Wrong.

So much is wrong and wretched and _what if_.

A word spoken in a different tone. A smile instead of a scowl. Humility instead of pride. So many ways that the path could have changed.

It’s not his fault, but he can’t see.

There’s a twist in the tangle, a knot that will be too tight if tugged.

Guilt.

Guilt that he could have helped, somehow, some way.

It’s eaten at him through the years, two memories dancing together, twirling interchangeably, reminding him how easily good can be tarnished and beaten away.

Two boys stand in a quiet corner of the Chantry, one with suspicion on his face, the other just frustrated. The first spends so much time, so much effort, fighting to be the best of what this place will make them into. The second sees that this place doesn’t want to make them better or best. It wants to make them compliant.

He sees the eye rolls and hears the, ‘He’ll learn’s when the first boy’s back is turned. They never say to his face that he is wrong, that mages are _not_ people, that it is the _public_ that must be protected, not _them_ with their wicked curse in their blood.

But they think it, and they know he will too. Because he is good and loyal and follows his orders well.

The second boy is tired of seeing him stand so tall when he stands for nothing. Tired of the effort that everyone expects will be leached from him soon enough. They are _not_ protectors. They are not heroes. They are bound.

Bound, bound, bound.

He shouts. He flings his arms open, blocks the first boy’s path.

_Cullen, they don’t care!  You’re not going to be some knight in shining armor! You’re not going to save the day!_

His words are too harsh, too pointed and cruel—even if the truth burns in them.

Burns bright like magefire.

Perhaps it is because that truth burns so brilliantly that the first boy refuses to see.

_And I suppose you will?_

The words are sharp as knives. More is intended to follow, but the boy with the blond curls and the ideals that shield him from the disapproving looks and jokes behind his back shuts his mouth and pushes past.

He should follow, make him see. This path was a choice for him, so he could turn back. The second boy has no way out, but at least _he’s_ not a fool.

The first memory sometimes plays further, drawing out to the fist fight when Alistair tries to stop him, to the dark looks and angry glares cast from one face to the other as time tugs them forward, shoots them toward the sky like sprouting trees, though they can only flourish so much in the molds given to them.

Eventually, it gives way to its partner.

Instead of that idealistic youth, back straight, head held proud, a different creature takes his place. Shoulders trembling, eyes wide and wild, clinging desperately to whatever wisp is left of him as though it will be wrenched away with a wail.

_You cannot trust them. They are monsters._

The words are not directed at him, but the change is so severe.

It hurts his heart.

And it scares him.

He tried to warn him, didn’t he? Tried to tell him that flaming sword was no shield.

Why hadn’t he been able to reach him? Had he knowingly spoken so harshly? An attempt to reason that would be shrugged off, a compromise with his conscience so that he could sleep better, knowing he was smarter, more understanding of the world than the precious perfect boy?

Even once the danger is past, the first boy—now a man—will not concede they are safe. Words that make Alistair flinch spew from his lips as he points to the haggard mages who remain, insisting they be put to the sword.

They are dangerous, they are monsters, they are abominations waiting to happen.

The little ones cling to robes, making themselves as small as possible, but Wynne, that woman does not even flinch. Head held high as the boy’s once was, she takes the bombardment of his words like a light breeze before suggesting the young man be given time to rest.

They have to drag him away.

He weeps.

Weeps for his words are going unheeded and he knows that danger will surface again.

Weeps because his warnings go unheard, just as the second boy’s warnings fell to deaf ears.

The brave boy cut down and twisted into a hateful man.

The thoughts dance together, twirling and stilling in hateful harmony.

Somedays, they do not surface. He’s gone months without them pestering him, but when they come back, he cannot help but wonder what he might have done, what might yet be done.

For years, it has tormented him on its whims and yet…

Yet now the dance has changed.

A third memory manages to interrupt that malicious waltz.

An older man, face gaunt and circles under his eyes. He holds his breath when he feels magic, but does not snap or move to squelch it. Instead, he looks sick. His mouth is a hard line, his brow pinched from pain—memories or injuries or both.

“The boy is gone and cannot be saved, but the man might yet be,” Cole offers as he sits beside Alistair. “It wasn’t your fault. Even if you had made him see that the templars were not great protectors, he would have joined them. He would have wanted to make them as they should have been. As he thought they were.”

A pinch in Alistair’s brow, a frown. He inspects Cole with a bit of confusion before blinking. “He always was stubborn, thinking the world was better than it was.”

“He would have been at the Circle’s fall, regardless of anything you could have done.”

The words are like a sunbeam on a cloudy day. They shimmer and shift, breaking through the clouds weakly at first, but they catch on his face, brow first. That pinch eases out, the crease never going away completely—it can’t anymore—and then the shadows under his eyes seem to lighten. “I suppose you’re right.”

With a smile, he reaches out and claps Cole on the shoulder before standing up, his burden lighter than it was. In an hour—if that—he won’t remember who told him that Cullen’s fate wasn’t a burden he would need to carry. Instead, it will be as though an epiphany hit him, that newest memory of the man too tired to hate falling in between the dance and breaking its partners apart forever.

There will be room for hope for a man who could have been a friend, had either of them ever really reached out.

Mirroring his smile, Cole watches him wander over to where Finley is.

She’s away from the campfire, back to it, staring out into the woods as though she’s looking for something.

Nothing good will come to them with a fire about. And she feels she’s been gone long enough that there’s like to be new things drawn to that cursed, flickering light.

Too bright, blinding through bundled branches, drying the air and making the cold catch in a cough in the throat.

She didn’t want it there at all, but she did not fight. This will be the last night she’ll be persuaded to let them have their comforts. They’ve made good time so far, barely over a week from Skyhold and already she knows the territory.

How odd that home could be such a short, hard ride away. It felt so much further.

A dream fading, the path lost as a tide washes it out, leaving no way home.

But she is.

Home.

There will be no homecoming with the fire—or with others with her—but this isn’t about coming home. This is about _saving_ home.

Red. Black. Corruption. It was supposed to be gone. Supposed to be safe.

How far does the red lyrium reach from the temple?

Alistair said it started further north, near Kirkwall.

How is it spreading? How is it moving? Rocks don’t move. Isn’t lyrium a rock? How is it that it can be Blighted?

Or is it just that she wants it to be Blighted because then it’s something she might be able to figure out?

Or is it because if it’s Blighted it won’t be her fault when she _can’t_ figure it out?

There’s no right way to approach this problem, and Alistair will die because she can’t figure it out. He wishes her good night, and she wonders if he will see the morning.

Everything is so…

“You should stay in the trees,” Cole offers as he sits beside Finley. She doesn’t jump, but he can feel her countenance shift. She’s more alert without showing it.

And it scares her that he knows this.

He wishes he didn’t scare her.

“The red follows the templars,” Cole begins again, motioning off into the night. “If it’s made it so far into the Wilds, then it would be wiser to be ready for a sweep.”

“We’d have to douse the fire,” Finley mumbles, fingers picking at her braid and forming a snarl. “And honestly, I don’t think it’d matter with red templars.”

There is so much fear.

Fear of the unknown and known alike. Of templars and the red, of the things she loves being tainted not by the Blight, but something just as hellish. The shadows could hold Corypheus himself for all she knows, and it makes her home feel foreign.

She doesn’t belong anywhere anymore.

Nowhere.

Except…

“I like the commander,” Cole says, staring off into the darkness. He can see little creatures, can feel their cautious curiosity at the light they dare not go too close to. “I think he would have found a way to come, if you had asked him.”

That makes all the worries draw to a halt, if only for a few seconds. Instead, warmth and soft caresses fill her mind, along with a longing for a touch too many miles away to be felt. Then she shakes her head as wicked worries begin to taint that calmness.

“We have to go into the part of the Wilds that still suffers the Blight. He’s already—”

Sick. Sick? Is it even…?

Will he be there when she gets back? Will he waste away? How long does lyrium withdrawal take to affect? How long does he have? She should have asked _before_ she left, but she was too busy trying to think of the fastest way down to where they needed to go.

When he said goodbye, his fingers grazed her wrist, but nothing more, and she doesn’t understand why he didn’t kiss her. She leaned toward him, didn’t she? Why did he seem so hesitant? He wasn’t hesitant when she went to him the night before.

Doesn’t matter.

They are _casual_. He doesn’t need to kiss her if he doesn’t feel like it.  And he wouldn’t need to, even if they _weren’t_ casual.

There is _so_ much fear.

It ties Cole’s tongue, and he’s not sure how to approach it to make it better. Things are easier with most of the others. Their fears are isolated or little. Even a little fear can cause a lot of pain, but this…

She and Cullen are both bundles of traumas and heartbreaks, and whenever he picks a thread to try to pull lose, it’s so tangled with the others that soothing one fear reawakens four more.

“Do you really think he would have come?”

The question is small, barely a whisper. For a moment, he’s confused about whether he heard it from her lips or from her thoughts.

She is looking at him, though, expecting an answer.

Perking up a little, Cole leans toward her, nodding quickly. “He wanted to. He spent the night with you in his arms thinking of a way.”

Then why didn’t he say anything?

“He didn’t know if you would want him to come.”

“I don’t,” her response is quick, firm, and honest.

She likes to think of him far from the Blight, safe and warm, in his bed that can see the stars overhead.

Even so, a smile turns up the corners of her lips, her fingers stilling in the hectic mess they’re making.

Then she’s eyeing Cole, suspicious. “You’re not just saying that—”

“It wouldn’t help,” Cole counters, a little annoyed that she would suspect him of lying.

But then, she’s come a long way already, able to sit beside him without drawing away, able to look him over with a soft curiosity that pulls on other hurts he’s not sure how to address.

“You should talk to—Cullen.” Solas is who he wants to suggest before he catches himself.

Her demon’s left such a huge, poorly healed scar and for him to try to talk to her about anything spirit related…

It would be like plunging her into icy waters, and he’s not sure she’ll come out of that.

Not yet.

Maybe someday when she has less hurts to weigh her down.

“Can’t talk to someone who’s not here,” she mutters, already wishing he was. “I don’t imagine he’d appreciate a bird message.”

“Maybe if you showed him how it works before you sent it.”

She nods at that, picking at her braid again. There is doubt, but there is little he can do to assuage it here.

“Do you rest?”

It’s the first time she’s ever asked him this sort of question, and Cole is taken aback as he stares at her in wonder. Then, with an awkward ringing of his hands, he shrugs a little. “I can.”

“But do you need it?” Finley presses, mind suddenly focusing on him. There are questions tumbling in her mind, but he does his best not to latch on to any one. She is still afraid of being read so easily, even if he would only use it for good. His tongue all but tangles until he can finally remember the question that actually made it to her lips.

Focus, focus.

“Not really, no.”

Unnatural. Everything rests, everything gets worn, but not it—him. Him, him, him.

He smiles despite himself. She wants to believe he’s someone, and a good someone at that. It rattles in her head, tumbling against her doubts.

Unnatural. Not…right. Everything rests, everything—

Unless…

Does anything in the _Fade_ rest? Perhaps he’s as he should be, if he were _where_ he should be.

Her gaze wanders away from Cole for the first time since he’s sat beside her, toward Solas.

_Talk to him._

The words burn in his mind, but he smiles instead, pretending as best he can that he doesn’t hear the internal struggle in her mind. He wants to help, but quiet is what she needs most.

It is surprisingly hard.

But it helps.

“So you don’t dream?”

The question takes him by surprise, which in itself surprises him more. He blinks. Once, twice. “No.”

“Is that why you don’t have magic?” Finley leans toward him now, head tilting. Her braid is forgotten. “You’re cut off?”

A tranquil spirit?

The tranquil scare her, but for him to be one might make them less frightening. After all, he can smile and respond with his own will.

“I’m not tranquil,” he objects, immediately hoping she doesn’t make the connection to the thought question and his summation. It doesn’t bother her.

“Or is the way people forget you a magic?” Her head tilts the other way, gaze fixated on him. “It doesn’t feel like magic, but you could hide that.”

“I don’t try, really,” Cole picks at one of his gloves, not sure if this attention is for better or for worse. Even Solas, who has always been able to see him, hasn’t given him this direct attention before. Perhaps because Solas already understands him. “I don’t know.”

“Do you miss the Fade?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “I can help a lot of people here, though. I like that.”

“Do you remember a lot about the Fade?”

Or is it a hazy home, memories taunting of a time before there was pain, of friends and family before the world caught up and swallowed you up in its realities.

“You want to know about spirits,” Cole whispers, despite himself. “You want to know if she could have been good before she came here.”

No.

Too much, too soon.

Finley is disappearing up into one of the trees before Cole can apologize.

She wants answers to questions she doesn’t want to ask, and he doesn’t know how to answer them without scaring and scarring. There are so many scars. She hides them and heals them and pretends that with the physical scab gone, so too is the memory. As though denial can unmake the harsher edges of her past.

She hurts.

Every heartbeat, every breath, every thought winds back to something wrong.

The Blight.

Lyrium addiction.

The mark.

Demons, monsters, templars. Mages with their suspicious glances, overly friendly smiles, friendship offered as a ruse.

Loss—

“Cole, would you care to help me tend to the fire?”

Solas’ voice is a soothing interruption that gives him something to focus on aside from Finley. Her hurts nag at the back of his mind, pushing him to find ways to untangle the mess, but at least for now, it is not too much.

Walking over to where Solas sits, Cole drops down beside him.

“Do you wish you’d stayed in Skyhold?” Solas asks, not addressing the spirit’s blunder.

“There is so much to do there,” Cole admits, but even as the words leave him, he is shaking his head. “ _A shadow, stealth and silence, too close to the mages, drawn in? No. No, this thing knows its way around. Summoned? How to find its master…an open investigation will have the mages at odds with the templars. Step light, step quick, find the culprit and handle it_.” Slumping down, Cole shakes his head. “Lady Vivienne does not want me present.” He picks at the bottom of his shirt a moment before adding, “I don’t think she’ll believe that I’m help.” He glances back toward the trees for a split second, not where Finley disappeared, but where she rests now, curled up in the upper branches, safe from the ground. “Not without Finley’s assurance.”

“You will need to speak with Finley about that,” Solas states, voice calm, though there’s slight annoyance in his eyes.

Cole leans forward and pats his hand. “She doesn’t fear _you_. Just…her. She destroys everything she touches, and Finley doesn’t know how to _tell_ you that. Not so you’ll believe. She worries you’ll try to help and draw her wrath.” Cole shudders. “She’s right to worry.”

At that, Solas cocks his head, brow arched. “You think?”

“She stopped being good a long time ago.”

“I’m aware that her essence was corrupted—”

“She devours her prey in pieces, takes the information she needs and leaves them broken and incomplete. A mother, a lover, a friend. She takes whatever she wants, Finley’s second shadow.”

“I know not to let anyone in.” Solas sounds offended.

“So did they.” Shaking his head again, Cole points toward the trees where Finley disappeared rather than where she is. “She believes what she’s seen. I don’t know how you can show her that you won’t fall down the same path, even if you won’t.”

“Neither do I.” Solas sighs, watching the fire dance in front of him, embers flickering up into the sky and reflecting in his eyes, making them glimmer red.

“You could always tell her the truth. She’d appreciate that, I think. And she’d keep your secret. With as many as she has, one more is not so hard.”

That earns him another arched brow and a look of mild reprimand. Alistair and Thom are asleep already, and Finley is far enough that she can’t hear them.

Even as Cole wonders if she’ll be able to sleep tonight—she doesn’t sleep well, even without the nightmare demon picking at her—Solas sighs again. “I do not believe our inquisitor is one to believe in legends.”

“She wouldn’t think you’re a monster unless you show her you are one.”

Solas blinks at Cole, surprised. Cole shrugs a little. “She’s terrified of me, but gave me a chance. She’d give you one.”

That earns him a sad smile.

They sit for a time, neither speaking, only the crackle of flames interrupting the quiet of the night.

No.

True as it feels, that’s a lie.

There are little skittering paws beyond the light, and larger things, moving quietly through the darkness, pausing to watch the embers before slinking off to the safer shadows.

There is tension here.

Fear of that fire, though not of its flames.

Fear of what the fire draws.

Cole shifts in his seat, glancing around. “Perhaps we should not have this.”

Solas blinks, puzzled a moment before noting the way Cole’s gaze has honed in upon the flames.

“You worry something will come?”

“Everything does.”

Solas lets his mind wander to the two sleeping in their little clearing—it’s not really large enough to be called that. The way Finley leads them, they avoid large open spaces, and it makes it tricky when making camps.

That won’t matter tomorrow night. No fire, no fear of setting the woods alight, though Finley would never let that happen.

Tonight, though, Alistair and Thom are drawn toward the warmth on their cots. Alistair looks tired and haggard, his dreams a myriad of memories and nightmares, of a song that shouldn’t be there just yet, and of Cullen and Finley and Thom.

He knows about the pretender.

Knows Thom isn’t who he claims.

Isn’t what.

He would have declared it outright, fought him for his honor, but Finley is so star struck with them both. And he doesn’t know what to say, how to say it.

Cole keeps it that way.

She can’t take another loss. Not now.

Let the other hurts settle and maybe…

Thom’s dreams are the same as they’ve been for years: children screaming, a mother begging for her little ones’ lives, abandoned men, and a new twist. A young lady, innocent and enthusiastic in this miserably dark world, looking up to him for his knowledge, for who she thinks he is. He sees her finding the truth a million ways, sees the way it crushes her.

The lie need not hurt her, too.

Cole will keep Alistair at bay as long as he can, but the rest of it…that is something Thom should have faced years ago.

It is difficult to balance these specific hurts, to let some linger and pick and pull gently at others, planting a hopeful presence in the echoing recesses of the mind.

He does it, though, fear to hope, fear to hope.

There’s so much he can do here that sometimes _he_ hurts.

Sometimes it feels as though he is slipping away himself.

Fears and paranoia, the hatred it leads to.

It makes him sick.

But it is everywhere, and he promised to make this world better. He will. He can.

One fear at a time.

He’s still debating which fear will be best erased next for their group when Solas douses the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	63. Betting Man

“How can you be so useless? You’re a fucking writer!”

Varric slowly set his mug down to stare pointedly across the table at Hawke, a single brow quirking as a loud thud heralded Hawke planting his face against the table with an agonizing wail that could have been because he was miserable or because he’d actually hurt himself.

Rivaini was inspecting one of the small clusters of lords and ladies standing not far from where she sat beside him and paused to look him over once, checking for signs of blood, and then went back to her people watching. Varric’s spot in the main hall was great for it, and Rivaini liked figuring out who was probably stupid enough to carry something valuable on them.

She’d promised not to take—or at least keep—any of said valuables, at least.

As Varric stared at the wild tufts of black hair now protruding toward him, he leaned against the table, frowning. “I hate to break it to you, Hawke, but not everybody’s going to be your friend.”

It seemed like Kirkwall would have ingrained that fact of life into his head a long time ago, but the man had spent all morning lamenting over how their dear inquisitor hated him, largely due to a multitude of events that he’d had no control over.

“Why do you even care, sweet boy?” Rivaini asked with a sigh, elbows against the table to prop herself up as she finally lost interest in the people around them. There weren’t too terribly many, so Varric was somewhat surprised that she’d been preoccupied for as long as she had been.

“I just…” Hawke started, sitting upright to reveal a slight red bruise on his nose from when he’d flopped forward. “I just want to hug her and give her things and keep her safe.”

Rivaini didn’t miss a beat, instead sighing and leaning her head back so that her long dark locks curled against the table. “Ah, sweet thing. Please stop. You can’t adopt every single person who looks like they had a hard life.”

“She’s like Bethany, though,” Hawke objected, forgetting Varric for the moment to look pleadingly at his lover. “Or…at least what I think Bethany might have ended up like if she hadn’t had Father and the rest of us there to keep her safe from templars.”

Even as Rivaini murmured something, tawny fingers running through Hawke’s wild hair and making it messier, Varric’s face fell.

He tried not to think of ‘what if’s and ‘what had happened’s when it came to the people around him, he really did.

But to think that Stardust might have been more like Sunshine if she’d just gotten a little be of security and…

And who was to say she _hadn’t_ gotten that?

Other than her constant paranoia and the way she never wanted to trust anyone.

Well, except for the one person who might not be the best _to_ trust. More and more, it seemed that Curly was the one Stardust sought out. Whenever Varric saw her, she was either looking for him, just leaving his company, or actually with the man.

From what he could tell, it was making the Rebel mages antsy, as they knew the commander by reputation.

Kirkwall reputation.

Varric had been looking for Sparkler the other day to ask him what he knew about the blonde boy. Cole, he’d said, hadn’t he? He’d told Varric to talk to Stardust, and yet somehow, with everything going on, he’d forgotten.

However, a lot was at work at the moment, and he was fairly certain some of the mages were looking for the boy, though they were oddly quiet about it.

A secretive lot, mages.

Though, Varric supposed they had their reasons. It had to have been hard, living in the Circles, always worried that idle curiosities might lead to undesirable attention or accusations. Blondie had always spoken so hatefully of the Circles, and every mage they’d helped escape from Kirkwall had been equally disdainful.

And with good reason. If the inside of the Circle had been any hint as to what they went through when they were there, it was a wonder they hadn’t all rebelled a long time ago.

However, as he’d wandered the library level of the tower, searching for Sparkler, he’d happened upon two mages talking, and as seemed to be the blessing of a writer, he’d come in at a rather opportune moment for eavesdropping.

“Bet she’d have luck with dealing with it,” the first voice had said. “She’s from the Wilds. She’s got to be used to monsters and demons, right?”

“Sure, go ask her,” the second voice had hissed. “Just go up to the templar bastard and tell him you need his pet for a few minutes.”

“She outranks him.”

There was a scoff. “You really believe they’d let a mage run a religious organization? They gave _her_ a pretty title to placate _us_.”

“She’s the Herald of Andraste.”

“You cannot be this stupid.” When there was a muttered rebuttal, the second voice took in a long breath and held it before impatiently snapping, “You and I—and all the templars—know how she got her damned eyes that way.”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona and Senior Enchanter Reinald both say she’s not a blood mage. That her eyes aren’t the same as a blood mage’s would be.”

“Of course they say that!” The second voice rose a second before a shush hushed her. After a pause to make sure no one was coming to see what the fuss was about, the second voice added, “If we’re caught supporting a blood mage, they’ll murder us all, and they won’t even need a Rite of Annulment to do it.”

“Well, if she’s a blood mage, then how is she that knight-commander’s pet? From all the stories, he abhors blood magic. He’d have killed her himself.” Before they could be countered, the first voice added, “And anyway, how do we know that’s the same knight-commander from Kirkwall?  Maybe he’s someone else.”

“Now you’re arguing against yourself.”

“No, I’m saying I don’t think she’s a blood mage. The templars would have picked up on that. They’re paranoid like that.”

“Which is why he keeps her so close. To keep an eye on her. Or maybe he’s under her thrall.”

Though there was sort of an aha from the first voice, rather than continue the argument, they were quiet a moment before saying, “It would explain why he seems to keep limited company with the other templars…but no! I won’t believe that. She’s closing the rifts and helping the world. As a mage. That’s got to count for something.”

“You’re impossible to talk to,” the woman muttered before adding, “but if you want to ask her about demons when she gets back, by all means, pry her away from her templar. You could do it to see which of them is the one in control. Just don’t expect sympathy when you get skewered.”

There was a rustling of fabric as one of them began to walk away.

Then, the more optimistic voice asked, “What if she stays near him to keep an eye on him?”

“Like I said, go find out when she gets back.”

And with that, the two had hurried off to do whatever it was they’d been avoiding.

Even as Varric had considered what they were saying—wondered just how deeply this divide in the mages’ trust went—he’d shifted from where he’d sat on the floor and almost shit himself when he turned to find someone sitting right beside him.

Sparkler had waved, his smirk making his moustache curl even more in a most devious way.

According to the Tevinter, there were a lot of those conversations going around, and they were worse with since Stardust had headed out again.

Worse with Cole gone.

Varric didn’t know what that meant, and had been annoyed that Sparkler had refused to explain it, instead shrugging innocently and then warning him not to bring Cole up to the Iron Lady.

Again, no explanation as to why. 

And that’s where he was no. No reasons behind the rhymes and the unsavory fact that Stardust was head over heels for someone who had once stated that he thought all mages should be made tranquil—or he had, according to Hawke in his more recent rant about how he didn’t understand how Curly hadn’t gone mad yet from all the free mages wandering about.

Maker’s balls, but if Hawke found out that Stardust trusted Curly more than him…

That was a wound to his pride that would take years to recover from.

“If you really want to try to win her favor,” Rivaini began, voice slow and expression one that conveyed what a waste of time she thought this was. “You could find a way to help her.”

“But _how_?” Hawke slumped back against the table, chin resting on the edge. “I’ve been trying to think of ways and so far, all I’ve got is wrangling another spider and bringing it here.”

“Please don’t bring man-eating spiders to Skyhold,” Varric protested, frown firmly in place.

Even as he spoke, Seeker came striding through the hall with her usual air or righteous distaste for life. However, just as Varric considered suggesting that Hawke talk to her of all people for advice, a most unusual thing occurred.

One of the templars who guarded Stardust—he hadn’t a nickname for him yet—intercepted her, stopping Seeker a few feet from their table.

Instantly, there was a change.

Seeker’s cheeks flushed a little, her stance became awkward as though she didn’t know if she wished to stand up straight or cross her arms or just hide. She tumbled over her words, her sure tone gone, and Varric wished he were close enough to hear this conversation, instead of only picking up the dull murmur of words.

“Which of our strapping templars do you think will succeed first, I wonder?”

Varric nearly jumped out of his skin as he realized that somehow Sparkler had snuck up on him again. The Tevinter grinned, most amused at his continued success, watching Varric’s surprise shift to a scowl.

“What’s that?” Hawke was the one to ask.

Sparkler frowned at Hawke, glanced toward the awkward duo several feet from them and rolled his eyes. “If I am truly the only one who’s noticed this, then just ignore me.”

“You can’t say that to him and expect him to drop it.” Rivaini sighed, shifting around so that she could prop her head in her hands, elbows braced against the table. “He won’t.”

Sparkler rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers against the table as he looked forlornly at Rivaini. “But what fun is it for me if I’m one sharing all the information? The looks on your faces will hardly be worth my while.”

Despite a bit of prodding, Sparkler would say no more, instead grumpily watching as Ser Trevelyan and Seeker concluded their awkward conversation and went their separate ways. Just as the mage started to get up, Varric found more guests to his table.

Things had been getting busier as the castle came together and more and more people arrived, though he couldn’t really complain. People always had a way of filling in blanks that he never expected to be filled. The other day, a maid had stopped to rest her feet and had chattered away about something or other that had been going on in the stables and how she’d heard the warden there seemed uncomfortable with their new warden.

The more people he talked to, the bigger and clearer the picture became.

And so he didn’t mind when Buttercup and their new arcanist—when had they asked for an arcanist?—came up to the table, arms laden with various alchemical supplies.

“Oi, they finished prettying up the Undercroft, yeah?” Buttercup began, standing a bit taller as she shifted the box of breakables in her arms rather unceremoniously. “Gotta move shite in so we get the good corners before Harritt.”

“That poor man,” Sparkler protested. “They’re sticking him in with red lyrium?”

“Use your blightin’ head,” Sera snapped, rolling her eyes. “Can’t be stuck with something we don’t got yet.”

“If you have some time,” Dagna interjected before mage and elf could get into a proper argument, “could you help us move? We’d like to get everything set up so we can figure out where to store the red lyrium so that it’ll be safest.”

Though there was some resistance from both Rivaini and Sparkler, the whole lot of them ended up roped into rounding up and moving the various oddities that an arcanist used. Prior to this, her tools had been shoved wherever there was room for them, and so it was a bit trying to figure out where everything was.

Fortunately, Dagna had an incredible mental inventory and was able to say what was missing, if asked.

Once everything was assembled, they sprawled out in the remaining space, allowing their weary limbs to rest.

Bree Cadash had joined them at some point, and while she sat near Dagna and Buttercup, she took to inspecting the rest of them. “My carta heard stories of some caves just inside Orlais that are filled with red lyrium. I need a few people to come with me to check it out, maybe bring back a few samples.”

“That shit is dangerous,” Varric protested, though he already knew his words were going to be ignored.

“Well, I’m not going near the stuff unless I absolutely have to,” Sparkler objected. He was sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “That stuff is a death sentence to mages.”

“It’s a death sentence to everyone,” Varric muttered.

However, as he knew it would, no one listened. Buttercup was the one to pipe up next. “Well, if Finley’s gonna cure it, she’s got to study it. You’d think magic would just be magic, but apparently it’s got all kinds of creepy rules to it.”

Dagna perked up at that. “Oh, they aren’t creepy. It’s pretty fun really.”

“And you would know how? Dwarves don’t go around setting things on fire.”

“Not with our minds,” Bree corrected.

As that derailed the conversation into talk of explosives and the like, Varric ran his hands down his face. Dealing with red lyrium would not end well. It had made his brother mad, had killed Meredith and countless other templars, and it canceled magic.

Who in their right mind would want to keep that nearby?

Though…

Stardust was a healer, and from what he’d heard, she was very upset about the red lyrium, now that she’d figured out more about it.

What, she hadn’t said before she’d left, and she’d taken almost everyone who knew what she’d figured out with her.

Varric had considered asking Curly about it, but the one time he’d brought of Stardust to the commander after she’d left, he’d been so ridiculously awkward that Varric had given up on him.

He understood that the man seemed to have a growing fondness for their inquisitor, but even that didn’t warrant him getting so…bent out of shape.

Varric couldn’t explain it, but he was missing something there. Perhaps he’d brought up his feelings, and she’d turned him down? It would explain the lost feel that seemed to come from him.

“Hey,” Bree interrupted his thoughts as she tossed a small orb of something at Sparkler. It bounced off harmlessly and rolled off. “Magister—”

“Altus.”

“—you ask Varric to host the bet yet?”

“Me?” Varric rocked back where he was sitting, moving so that he could eye both Bree and Sparkler with minimal head movement. “Why me? And what bet?”

Sera snorted at that, starting to ask something only to fall into a cackling fit that overtook her and wouldn’t allow for words. Dagna giggled along with her, eyes alight.

“Does this have to do with the lady seeker and her templar beau?” Hawke asked, perking up a little. So Varric wasn’t the only one still wondering about Sparkler’s earlier comments.

With a nod, Bree leveled her gaze at Varric, trying to fight a grin. “It’s rather clear that certain people’s affections are becoming obvious to anyone with eyes, and so we wanted to start a bet about it.” Even as Hawke started to ask for clarification, wondering if this was indeed about Seeker or not, Bree held up a hand, willing him to have some patience. “Everyone is basically holding their breath, waiting for the next catastrophe to strike. We don’t know what Corypheus is planning. We have no way to strike against him, and so we thought a light-hearted bet might boost morale.”

Hawke cocked his head, considering it. Honestly, it was something he would have done back in Kirkwall.  Rivaini seemed mildly interested, as well.

Bree motioned to Varric. “You’re personable and easy to talk to, and good with numbers from what I hear—secrets, too—so we thought you’d be good to be the bookie.”

“Okay, I admit it: I’m intrigued.” Varric couldn’t help but grin as Hawke bit back a laugh. “What’s the bet?”

“Which templar will get his lady first,” Dagna piped up, smile bright as the damned sun.

Even as it sunk in to Varric what they were talking about, Hawke furrowed his brow. “You’re going to have to elaborate on that. Are a bunch of templars falling in love?”

“Just two for the bet,” Bree shrugged. “Ser Trevelyan, and the more obvious Commander. Both men are like love-struck puppies, and both their lady interests seem to reciprocate, yet somehow also seem unsure as to what in the void’s going on, so it’s a matter of seeing which poor bastard manages to get through to his lady first.”

While Buttercup berated Sparkler for not getting things set up already and he shot back that he didn’t like having to explain everything, Hawke sat where he was, expression unreadable as the gears turned slowly in his head.

“You mean to tell me that the commander, as in Commander Cullen Rutherford, has feelings for someone?” Varric held his breath as he watched Hawke let out a laugh and then nudge Rivaini. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t think he had a heart. I’m in.”

That brought a few disbelieving laughs from those who hadn’t known Curly in Kirkwall, though Buttercup seemed more keen on that information than the others.

“Right, right, so,” Dagna waved her hand when Hawke started to ask for details. “Here’s the deal: No interfering. Can’t try to set them up or help them out—”

“Or hinder them,” Sparkler added, though Buttercup just glared at him before continuing.

“Or hinder them so that the other couple gets together first.”

Rivaini leaned back against Hawke, arching her brow. “So we just watch these sad fools try to blunder their way through romance on their own? Can’t give advice or anything?”

“Nothing.”

“What if they ask?”

At that, Hawke scoffed, “Cullen’s not about to ask anyone in this room, and I doubt that other templar would, either.”

“But if one of them does, what’s the policy?” Rivaini persisted, lightly elbowing Hawke in the stomach.

After a brief debate, they finally settled on the rules. No interference. If one was asked for help, one must find their way out of it or give up their shot at winning the bet. If the ladies asked for help, it was again to be considered interference and generic, unhelpful advice was to be given, like ‘follow your heart’.

And above all else, the four involved in the bet must never learn of it.

Varric had spent the whole conversation watching Hawke, waiting for him to ask who it was that the commander fancied, and yet somehow, that little detail never came up.

Likely, everyone else already knew who was involved and didn’t think it needed stating.

In the end, it seemed that Hawke was too amused with the idea that Curly could actually having feelings to consider who those feelings might be for, for even when the subject shifted back to red lyrium, he made not attempts to backtrack.

Varric wished he would, especially when Hawke realized that perhaps procuring some red lyrium samples might make him ‘even’ for squishing Stardust’s spider.

With a groan, Varric had resigned himself to the fact that he was likely about to be traveling into Orlais with his idiot of a best friend, all while trying to figure out how to break it to him gently that the mage he was equating to his sister had a fondness for one of the few people Hawke genuinely couldn’t stand.

Ancestors’ balls, but his was going to be a miserable trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that bets are used in a lot of fics and headcanons, and I thought about not doing it in this story, but I had to. It's too fun to pass up on. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry that the updates have been so slow lately. I may drop down to updating twice a month, just to make sure I have the time to do this and work on my original projects, as well as other fics. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	64. Of All the Blighted Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: animal body horror

Finley shuddered as she paused, hands poised to pull herself up and over a freshly fallen log. This type of tree was supposed to be a prime candidate for iron bark, with its wood thick and heavy, and yet this tree’s bark felt almost paper thin. She wasn’t even sure if it would support her weight, if she pulled herself up onto it.

They were getting close to the Blighted lands.

Even the areas near the Blight were afflicted, trees growing smaller, plants weaker, animals prone to deformities at birth. Assuming they weren’t stillborn.

That was why it’d gotten so quiet in their travels the last few days. All the inhabitants of the Wilds knew better than to live too close to the lost lands. Her companions had been irate when she’d insisted they fill a ‘ridiculous’ amount of water skins before heading further two days ago, but she wouldn’t drink the water here.

Supposedly the Blight only affected living things and could only be caught from another loving thing, but it poisoned everything else.

It was an infection, a sickness, a curse, all rolled into one.

Sometimes when the wind blew, she felt like a sickness was washing over her, like the ailment caused by the Blight could infect the air itself. She’d often wondered if it did, somehow.

It was a good thing Cole didn’t need to eat. And that he was stronger than he looked. He’d taken to carrying more than a few supplies he would never need, to make sure the rest of them would not go hungry.

She’d been reluctant to bring him, as she didn’t know if he would be alright around the Blight—she’d never heard of a demon or spirit getting hurt by the Blight, but they generally weren’t present to interact with it, were they?

He’d assured her he would be alright, and that if he felt he might not be, he would wait with things that could be left behind.

Finley didn’t like the idea of leaving anyone behind, though. Even if the outlying sections of the lost lands didn’t have darkspawn themselves, there were creatures that had been twisted by the Blight, deer with fangs, bears with wedges of bone protruding from them—the bereskarn—and much worse.

Those sorts of beasts roamed, and it could be hard to predict when they were coming near, especially with the Blight so close.

“We could rest here for the night.”

Alistair’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. Of their group, he looked the worst, though she couldn’t tell if that was because of the Blight in him or something else.

Cole looked as though he could walk forever—he probably could—and Solas and Blackwall both seemed well enough. They were a little worn, but she’d been driving them to go at as quick a pace as they could. It wouldn’t do to take too long out here. There was too much at risk.

“There should be a cliff up ahead another mile or so,” Finley finally said. “I thought we could stop there.”

Alistair took in a slow breath, though some of the color returned to his cheeks as she cast a quiet heal on him. With a half bow, he moved closer to her, a quirky smile in place. “You know, you’re awfully nice for a witch.”

“Then perhaps that should be an indication that I’m not one,” Finley muttered, though she couldn’t stay very annoyed with him. Blackwall and the others knew she wasn’t a witch—Alistair knew too—and now that she was in her home, she didn’t mind teasing so much. After all, there were no templars around to skewer her if someone took the joke too seriously.

Part of her wanted to ask them to stay with her, to go rogue from the Inquisition and use magic to track down rifts and close them on their own terms. With such a small party, it would be hard to keep them out of Orlais because of idiotic politics.

The only thing that made her pause in those fantasies was the fact that she wouldn’t see Cullen again if she did that.

When she tried to pull herself onto the log, it crumbled beneath her weight, as she’d worried it might. It was as though it had started to grow already rotting.

Cole offered her a few cryptic words of consolation as they kept going.

It was so eerie to be here. Since things had gone awry, she’d avoided this part of the Wilds as best she could, though even without being there for years, she still knew it. She could remember what this place had been like before, when there had been noises besides branches falling from their own weight and the lonely rustle of underdeveloped leaves.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Alistair was beside her again, his voice oddly loud even hushed as it was. The world made sure that all sound carried here, while somehow feeling smothering all the same. When he spoke again, his voice was even lower. “You know a bit about the grey wardens, don’t you?”

Finley perked up instantly, though she quickly tried to rein in her excitement. Cassandra had scolded her once early on for pestering Blackwall so, and while she was fairly certain he didn’t mind, she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of the Hero of Ferelden. Looking forward so that she could at least pretend to play calm, she shrugged. “I know stories.”

“You know we can sense darkspawn?”

“That _is_ in the stories,” Finley chirped, a bit too quickly. When she dared a glance at Alistair, he was biting back a grin that made his lips into a U.

He waited a moment to swallow his laughter and then motioned toward himself. “What you sense in me. I use it to sense others like myself, so other grey wardens, and also darkspawn, because they also carry the Blight.” He hesitated before adding, “Even the archdemon, when there is one.”

When she realized he wasn’t going to say anything else, Finley nodded toward him, though her brow pinched together, and she found herself staring at the forest floor rather than him. “You said you did this to yourself.”

“I can’t talk about that,” Alistair started, though he stopped himself. “Well, I’m not supposed to. But…” Finley’s gaze was on him in an instant. “Well, you seem like the sort who can keep a secret.”

Finley nearly tripped over a tree root.

Was this what she thought it was? A grey warden entrusting her with grey warden secrets?

Alistair looked at her a moment like he might be reconsidering what he’d started to say, and she struggled not to look excited. “We do something called a Joining. It’s…it involves exposure to darkspawn blood, and I was wondering if somehow something like that happened to you.”

Finley stared at him blankly. “What?”

“You can sense the Blight.”

Without thinking, she stopped in her tracks, tilting her head. “I’m not a grey warden.”

“No, I know that,” Alistair scratched at his hair and then rolled his eyes. “I’m not that big of an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot at all.”

She hadn’t meant to sound as distressed as she did when she said that, and rather wanted to crawl up one of the nearest trees and hide from the look he was giving her.

“How are you able to sense the Blight?”

Finley shrugged a little, starting to walk again and glancing from him to the way ahead and back. “It’s not…I have wards.”

Alistair quirked a brow. “Wards?”

“For dangerous things,” Finley pulled her braid over her shoulder and undid it to tidy it up a bit. “Well, I say ward, but it doesn’t really ward? I…it lets me know when something’s nearby, normally. I have one for templars, too.”

As soon as she said it, she wondered why. He didn’t need to know that.

However, he simply tilted his head, watching her. “You can sense when templars are nearby.”

“When they see me.” She wound her hair tie around one wrist and couldn’t help but pick at her hair. “You don’t have magic, so you probably would be bored with the finer details, but the templar one isn’t as good as the one for the Blight. And I have one for demons, too, but it’s still highly theoretical because I’d have to find demons to test it and well, I kind of made a point of avoiding them.”  She grimaced as she realized she was rambling. “The templar spell came first.” She motioned to herself eyes. “They don’t tend to give me chances to prove I’m not a blood mage, so it’s better to know when they’ve spotted me before they’re close enough to do…anything.”

Shuddering, Finley frowned when one of her fingers got caught in a tangle in her hair. As she worked to get it out, she kept talking. “When the Blight hit, some friends thought we could tweak the spell, so that we’d be able to feel them before they came. Darkspawn, that is. It…” She frowned, finally freeing her finger and resuming her braid. “It is a very unrefined spell, but it works well enough.”

“So, if we were in a cave, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between me or a darkspawn?”

“Or a blighted shrub,” Finley admitted. Despite being serious, Alistair laughed at that. The smile that lit up his face was quite becoming.

“Well, I’ve never been mistaken for a bush before.” He paused, still smiling. “So your spell just lets you know that there’s danger nearby?”

“It has its limitations.” Finley tied her hair back and flung it over her shoulder, only to pull it forward again to play with when she saw she still had his undivided attention. “Like I said, I can’t tell the difference between what’s Blighted, and when we get to the Blighted lands, I’m going to have to dispel it because it’ll sort of overload.”

“Because everything’s Blighted?”

“Right.” Her voice drifted fainter before she shuddered again. “When I fell into the Fade, it messed up a bunch of my wards. I didn’t even realize that my Blight one was gone until the darkspawn magister walked up on me.” She took in a shaky breath, hating that memory. “So of course as soon as I could, I set that back in place. Not that I really _need_ it for him—he’s got quite the presence—but…maybe I’ll get a little more warning next time.”

“But you were feeling the red lyrium in him, weren’t you?”

“Because of the templar spell, I think,” Finley explained. “I’m…well, when I heal I can feel different wrongnesses, if that makes sense. A broken bone has a sort of itchy feel, a bruise an ache. When you brush against the Blight, it feels a little like you’re being strangled.”

“You feel that when you heal me?”

“It’s fleeting, really,” Finley frowned, turning more toward him and nearly tripping again. “If it was a problem, I wouldn’t heal you.” Even as Alistair looked skeptical, Finley tried to look more reassuring, “And it’s not…I’m trying to simplify it for you since you don’t have magic. It’s more of a sharp twinge in magic, but you wouldn’t know that sort of thing, I suspect.”

“I’ve never had my magic twinge,” Alistair nodded, mock serious.

Standing a little taller, Finley motioned toward him. “Hence I tried to make it something you’d understand.”

“I apologize if I seem unappreciative,” Alistair offered, one hand over his heart. “This is fascinating.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Alistair insisted, picking up his pace as she did hers so that she couldn’t leave him behind. “Really. I think it’s interesting.” When she didn’t respond right away, he asked, “Does this ward help prevent the Blight?”

“Just in the sense that you can run before you come in contact with it.”

“Then should you be going out here?” At that, Alistair stopped, and without thinking, Finley did too. “You’re the only one who can close the rifts. I don’t know that you should be putting yourself at risk, when you don’t have any immunity to the Blight.”

“You don’t know where to find the notes,” Finley retorted.

“How are you so sure that the red lyrium and the Blight are connected? If you didn’t have your spell up when you dealt with red lyrium…”

“It was the same twinge.” Finley resumed walking at a slightly slow pace, inviting him to keep up. He did. “Well, almost…I’ve never had ailments have such a similar feel like that. Healing a broken arm and a broken leg have the same similar sort of tug to each other that the Blight and Red Lyrium infection seem to have. They have to be related.”

“But you could still sense red lyrium without the spell.”

“Because I was trying to heal someone,” Finley gave him a stern look. “And red lyrium amplifies the regular templar spell, too. It’s a bit of both, I think.”

“So would you feel red lyrium if it infected someone other than a templar…without the Blight ward, I mean.”

Finley blinked, surprised that he was so willing to discuss the possibilities of her spells. Most non-mages tended to shy away from such topics and the ones who didn’t…

He didn’t seem like the typical ones who didn’t.

Though, she didn’t have particularly good skills when it came to reading people.

When she realized she hadn’t answered him yet, she finally shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then, she shrugged again. “All the more reason to do more research and to get this research.”

Alistair nodded, thoughtful, allowing their conversation to fade as they kept going.

That silence prevailed until they reached the cliff. Finley had known what they would see, but it still hurt as much as the first day.

The trees were withered and lifeless husks, the ground black and any shrubs bare skeletons of what they should be.

It was a wasteland, and even the stars overhead seemed to glimmer a little dimmer.

This area had once boasted a beautiful canopy, stretching off to the horizon, and now…it was a pustule, a blemish on her precious Wilds.

The way down from their overlook was a narrow, but easy path—there was nothing that could grow to clutter it—and Finley reminded them that they’d head down in the morning, after doing a survey to make certain that nothing dangerous was lurking too near.  

None of them slept particularly well, but they waited until dawn to pack up and move again. After dispelling her ward, Alistair told her he couldn’t sense any monsters nearby, and they headed down into that miserable nightmare.

The first two days went without event. They made good time, partially because there was so little underbrush to wind through, and partially because they were all afraid, even if none of them spoke about it.

Well, none save Cole, who was constantly talking about birds and cheese and gentle smiles from long ago to try to remind them all that things were not so dire. Sometimes it was hard to tell who he was trying to comfort, but the rest of them joined in when they took breaks, sharing fond memories that seemed to help themselves and the poor spirit with staving off ill thoughts.

On the evening of the third that they finally came to their destination, an old, half-standing hut.

Memories flooded back to her as she stopped at the edge of what had once been a pretty clearing. She could see herself and another mage or two discussing theory in the sunlight, relaxing as they knew the templars weren’t like to come so far south.

She shivered as a sickly wind washed over them and then straightened up. “If the research is still here, it’ll be in there.”

Solas frowned as they started into the clearing, dead grass crunching underfoot. “Odd.” When Finley tilted her head, he motioned around them. “Would it not have been wiser to do your research outside of the Blighted areas?”

Even as Finley shifted a little, Cole patted her shoulder, giving her a simple smile when she looked at him. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

Before he could say more, Finley nodded quickly, picking up her pace.

“Be careful.” Alistair came up on her side opposite Cole, glancing around. His sword was in hand. “Something’s nearby.”

“Darkspawn?” Finley whispered. She’d known it would be impractical, but she’d dearly hoped that blighted trees would be all they’d see for their time in the lost lands.

“Some sort of ghoul, I think,” Alistair corrected, scanning their surroundings. “It’s off to our left, but it’s close.”

“Can we avoid it?” Solas asked.

“It will probably be drawn to me,” Alistair murmured, adjusting his grip on his sword and then rolling the shoulder of his shield arm. The rest of them drew their weapons as they hurried.

Once they reached the hovel, Finley darted straight to the back of the room, brushing dust and debris away from the floor until she revealed a trap door. The wood practically fell apart as she hoisted it out of place, one of the hinges breaking apart completely. She told herself it didn’t matter as she let it rest awkwardly against the wall.

They slipped into the earth one at a time after she used a spell to reinforce the ladder leading down, and she half wondered if darkspawn would be waiting for them below. Luckily, there was nothing. The room beneath the earth was considerably larger than the one overhead, though parts of it had caved in after so many years of disuse.

Surprisingly, the part that bothered her the most was that there were not spider webs or insects anywhere to be seen.

Even as she considered seeing if the lighting spell they’d used still worked, the orb on Solas’ staff gleamed to life, casting odd shadows across the room.

There were dozens upon dozens of books and journals, stacks of rotted reagents and tainted potions.

One wall even sported gross black and red veins across it. Those awful veins had just begun to crawl their way across the adjacent walls, and she cringed as she started toward it.

That would be where the notes were, of course.

The ground was damp and rotten beneath her feet, a horrid stench puffing up with each step.

She tried to hold her breath.

After digging through damp, half rotted pages, she finally came to the notes she was after, and quickly flipped through them to see that they were all there before turning and stilling.

Alistair had put up his weapons, and he was studying the wall behind her, arms cross and brow furrowed. As she whispered that she’d found what she was after, he stepped past her, putting a hand against the wall and pressing lightly.

“This…this doesn’t make any sense.”

“How’s that?” Blackwall asked, though he seemed to pale at the attention from his fellow warden, who looked mostly annoyed.

“I’ve only ever seen the Blight affect the earth like this in areas where there are high concentrations of darkspawn.”

She’d been prepared to evade any questions he might have, but when he said he wondered if they might camp there for the night to try to gather samples and the like for study, she couldn’t.

“I don’t think it would be wise to mess with that.”

Instantly all eyes were on her, and she shuddered from the sudden attention.

She clutched the research a little closer as Alistair walked back to her. “This was your research, wasn’t it? Do you know what—”

Something creaked overhead.

“Quiet.”

Even as Alistair gave her an exasperated, wary glare, she put a finger to his lips, shushing the others.

For a moment, it felt like the world was almost completely silent save for the sounds of their breathing and the winds overhead.

Then she heard noise overhead again.

An odd wheeze.

A sniff.

The sounds of hooves on rotted wood.

A hissed breath.

This was not good.

Solas slipped closer to Finley, helping her tuck the notes away into her bag. “Is there another way out of here?”

A shadow moved over the hole in the ceiling next to the ladder.

Finley was grateful that the entryway was as small as it was. If what she thought was overhead was actually up there, then…

Looking back at Solas, she nodded, and then glanced around the room.

There had been two passages that wound their way underground from the hut, one going on for almost a mile, and the other opening near the edge of the clearing. From the looks of things, however, both had caved in years ago, and she hesitantly crept toward one.

Just as she considered how much noise and time it might take to try to dig through and see if the tunnel opened up further along, there was a loud snuffling overhead and then…

Silence.

The five of them held their breath, none of them daring to move as they waited for the sounds overhead to indicate whatever was up there had moved on or lay in wait.

Finally, Cole shivered. “They’ve gone for now, but not very far.”

“You know what it was?” Blackwall asked, his sword drawn.

The spirit shivered, nodding miserably to the rest of them. “In pain.” He shuddered, clutching himself and rocking slowly. “Dark. Dark, black and red. Black pain, red anger, twisting, turning, tossing, tumbling. Once there was light. She remembers. Warm and bright. It hurts her now, and she hates it. Hates the memories more. If she could just forget the warmth the cold might not bite so. She hates the things that dare tread here, the ones that can still feel that light. The monsters never came here; she should have been safe.”

Finley flinched at his words, and the spirit focused on her, a pleading look in his eyes. “You didn’t know.”

Alistair was watching Finley considerably more closely than before, though they all jumped when Solas broke the silence, striding to the ladder. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Then we should take this time to leave ourselves. It will be dusk soon enough, and I should like to be far away from here by the time the darkness falls.” Without another word, he hoisted himself up the ladder. Cole followed on his heels, though the wardens waited until Finley was up before following.

Despite being weary, their group backtracked straight through the night, none of them wanting to stay in this blighted nightmare longer than they would need to, and while they continued on, Finley hoped dearly that Alistair and the others might forget what she’d started to explain back before that creature had found them.

After the Blight, she and quite a few other apostates had decided to cure the Blight and restore their beloved home. They had spent four years working together, sharing reagents and spell theory, working tirelessly to try to find a way to change things back to how they had been.

Finley was, more often than not, the courier between groups, bringing notes of new spells or findings to others and checking in on them to see how work was going, namely because of how well she could slip past animals and the like.

She’d occasionally been teased about being a witch then, too, by a few of the other apostates who gladly gave themselves similar titles. She hadn’t minded it so much then, as it meant she was one of them, though she never claimed the title for herself.

It had been a time of hope and relative peace.

She’d originally been heading to share research with a few colleagues to the east when she’d caught wind of a templar sweep and had circled back to where she’d just left to wait out her hunters.

The research she’d been helping with at the time had been promising. They’d figured out how to…move the Blight for lack of a better word. It wasn’t a cure, but they could pull it back from parts of what was infected, focus it. For example, they could force all of the blight into a single branch on a sapling, though they couldn’t cure the branch itself, and it was still contagious and with even a second’s lapse in attention, it would spread back into the rest of the sapling, causing damage at an accelerated rate.

The idea behind it was that a lost limb—or even finger or toe if they could concentrate it enough—wouldn’t be nearly as bad as succumbing to the Blight.

The templars being on the hunt had given her an excuse to go back and help more with said research, and she had been glad of it at first.

When she’d returned, however, having been gone no more than four days, she’d found that the mage she’d left, a man called Rori, had gone and caught himself a blighted wyvern.

There’d been quite the argument as he insisted he could keep the beast docile and test upon it, and Finley had likewise insisted that their spells were still too experimental to try on so large a creature.

And on one that was so much further gone than most of the test subjects people used.

Mostly, they used plants that had been exposed to the Blight, and in some rare cases, mice or crickets, though it was hard to get a good look at changes to the latter.

For him to want to try to expel the Blight from a full-grown wyvern who looked to have been infected quite some time ago was…

It was downright foolish.

Finley had talked him out of it, or at least she thought she had. He’d promised to wait for her to come back with news on other fronts before he would do anything, and after a few days’ time, she’d headed off again.

She’d been on the cliff where she’d had the party stop when it had happened. An eruption of magic that had sent shockwaves through the earth and air, knocking her off her feet and out like a light.

When she came to, she’d cast a quick heal on herself, shuddering as her Blight ward frantically went off in her head, telling her that this place, a place that was miles and miles from where the actual Blight had taken place, was a danger.

Moving cautiously, she’d gone to the cliff’s edge and peered out, horrified by what she saw.

The Blight had swallowed miles of forest, and it seemed to her like it was working its way out still. Like something had amplified the Blight’s ability to spread, and it was going to consume the whole world this time.

She’d tried to go back to where Rori lived, to see if he was alright, but there had been so much damage, so many sickening animals and withering trees, that she’d feared she would catch the Blight herself, and had fled.

Another mage, a dreamer, had gone into the Fade, and claimed that Rori had tried to expel the Blight from the wyvern as soon as he knew Finley was far enough away that she couldn’t backtrack quickly to stop him.

The Blight had left the wyvern entirely, but with nowhere specific to go, it had gone everywhere.

They’d made points to go past the area every now and then to check for signs that it was still spreading, but after almost a month, it had ceased creeping out, though the area around it still suffered from proximity.

Most of the apostates in their group had abandoned the project after that, claiming it a sign from the Maker that their aid was unwanted. One overzealous mage, wanting to wipe her slate clean and still have a chance to make it to the Maker’s side, had burned most of their notes, going to everyone involved and making sure that there was nothing that could be used to cause such destruction again.

Donovan had been one of the few to keep his well enough hidden—and fire-proofed—so that work could go on.

Finley and a few others had persisted, more carefully, restricting their work almost entirely to theory, and the few test subjects they did use to carefully potted plants.

Even so, Rori’s work had been the closest they’d ever gotten to success, and, as their dreamer had said, he _had_ managed to cure the wyvern, even if it did die shortly after in the spell’s backlash.

If they could have had more time to look into his work…

Everyone had been too afraid to go into those woods, though, and the mage who’d sought redemption had declared that she was going to make sure nothing could be found.

While she’d never been heard from after her departure, most of them had assumed that either she’d succeeded and found a new home far away from them, or that something had gotten to her or that she’d simply succumbed to the Blight herself.

Either way, there hadn’t been enough people willing to risk catching the Blight to make the trip worth it to see if the research was still there.

Not until she’d befriended grey wardens.

That they had come with her and that the work had still been there meant the world to Finley.

It gave her renewed energy, and she kept healing the others’ weary muscles to keep them moving as they made their way out of the lost lands.

She likely needn’t have expended her energy so, for even without her prompting, her entire party was quick on their feet, always alert for whatever had been there. While Blackwall and Alistair both questioned Cole and then Finley about what it had been, neither of them responded.

Despite taking two and a half days to get to the hut, they were able to cut down on an entire day by pushing themselves through without sleep, and it wasn’t until they were out of those cursed woods that they finally decided to set up camp.

As Solas and Blackwall debated making a fire, Cole slipped up beside Finley and tugged on her sleeve, eyes doleful as he met her gaze. “I…I don’t like knowing how much she hurts.”

Finley grimaced and then nodded. “I know how you feel.”

“If we could help her…”

Even as Finley nodded, a hand landed on her shoulder and she turned the other way to see Alistair. “I’ve a few questions about that research of yours.”

Though Finley looked back for Cole, the spirit had disappeared, as he so often did. She was getting a little used to him, now, and was having more and more trouble imagining him as dangerous.

However, he wasn’t her primary concern at the moment. Turning slowly back to Alistair, she appraised him carefully. “I wasn’t there when it fell apart, so I don’t know that I can properly answer anything.”

“Not even how the Blight got to an area the darkspawn never marched through?”

With great reluctance, Finley told him bits of what had happened, that a friend had been overzealous, but that she was sure if they were careful, the work could be continued.  When she was done, she half expected him to curse her and her friends for having been so stupid, but instead he let out a dry laugh.

“Where were you a year ago?” Even as she wondered why he was asking, he shook his head. “To think…she could have just talked to you.” He scratched at the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing abruptly as his gaze softened. It was the gentlest she’d ever seen him. “Des, that is Warden Commander Des Brosca, took a few of her warden recruits with her and headed out west, looking for a cure for the Blight.”

Even as he backtracked to say her title, Finley knew who he was talking about. She’d heard the stories, and she knew that he and Des had been the two wardens to square off against the archdemon. He had landed the killing blow, but she had been just as important to ending the Blight.

That he would imply she could be needed by the both of them for warden related matters…

“It’s not…really a cure, yet, though.”

“Still, we have a better understanding of the Blight,” Alistair shrugged. “I’d wager Velanna would be able to help with some of that research.” He tilted his head, considering it. “Could you send it to them? If I found out where they were? In one of those bird messages of yours?”

“Likely not,” Finley fidgeted under his gaze, hating herself for having to tell him no. “The birds are good for shorter messages, so I’d have to send dozens to get all the material to someone else via message, and the likelihood that something might go amiss and a message get lost is fairly high when there’s that many of them, and if they lost even one piece, it could do some real damage if they tried to cast the spell or just build off it.”

“Ah,” Alistair crossed his arms and nodded slowly. However, even as Finley started to apologize, worried that this might be too great a disappointment to him, he eyed her. “Could you send her word to come to Skyhold?”

Finley’s finger punched a hole through her sleeve as she fiddled with it, and she paused to free her finger before looking up at him, a little embarrassed that all her spells were so wanting. “I’d need to know where she was, first. Or, if you had something of hers, like a hair…”

“What about a gift she gave me?”

“…No.” It felt like that was all she could say to him. “It would need to be something of hers.”

Nodding slowly, Alistair patted her shoulder, giving her a reassuring smile. “Alright. Back channels it is. I’ll find a way to contact her. In the meantime…how many people are you intending on sharing those notes with…?”

“Solas.” The elf’s ears pricked up at his name, though he didn’t turn away from the fire he was building. “There’s a rather high margin for error if people are too overzealous, so the less people actively working on it, the less likely that anything…unwanted will happen.”

It was one of the main reasons Solas had come with them. She’d recruited the wardens because they would be immune to the Blight, Cole because he wouldn’t likely be afflicted, and Solas because he was a good healer and they could get started on evaluating the notes quickly—and he could heal if something happened to her.

Though, it seemed like that little bit would be unnecessary, as they’d made it out alright.

Alistair nodded to himself before patting Finley on the shoulder, smile in place. However, just as he said that he was glad to have been able to come along with her for this little excursion, he went rigid, attention snapping back toward the way they’d come.

She followed his gaze, sucking in her breath when she saw the creature stepping out from underneath one of the rotted trees a few yards beyond.

Its fur coat was a dingy brown, with patches and entire swaths of fur missing all together, revealing blistered, rotting skin and muscle beneath. The hair from its main and tail was almost completely gone, save for a few scraggly, limp wisps that made it look more dead than alive, and its hooves had cracks running through them, with black ooze caked upon them.

Worst of all, however, was its face. Its nose had rotted back to the bone, and its eyes were a dull red that bled black ooze which matted what was left of its coat around its eyes.

And there, protruding from the center of its forehead, was a large, curving horn, sharp and covered in red and black lines, much like the tainted wall had been. In addition to its actual horn, rows of small, bone like protrusions jutted out along the top of its head and down its back, twisted and crooked and vile.

The beast let out a low wheeze as it stopped, watching them.

“She needs our help,” Cole whispered, beside Finley again.

Solas and Blackwall were frozen near the fire. Finley swallowed slowly, not daring to glance away from the twisted beast. “Cole, I thought you could sense her pain. You didn’t know she was following us?”

“You said we could help her,” the spirit protested, wringing his hands worriedly, “and there’s but one way left to help.”

Finley’s heart sank at the words, easily putting together what he meant.

With a horrifying, haunting scream, the beast charged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and keeping up with the story! Ya'll keep me going <3


	65. Back Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

Coming back to Skyhold was odd for Finley. It didn’t feel like a homecoming, but she certainly was greeted with open arms. People she scarcely remembered came up and offered her things, words of wisdom, bottoms of this or that, foods, clothes.

A few scouts had joined her party as they drew into the valley, and by the time she made it into the castle, she felt like she was leading a parade. One full of mages and templars and common folk alike, and somehow, they were all getting along well enough.

Horses were brought out to them early on, and the scouts gathered the gifts as she did her best to thank everyone, fighting that feeling of claustrophobia that she’d all but forgotten.

That feeling of being watched.

She was almost certain the templars’ numbers had doubled or even tripled. She rode with Solas, as they were both slighter than their companions—she wasn’t sure where Cole had disappeared to, but then, that was hardly unusual—and he whispered to her once or twice that things were well. The templars would not dare attack someone with the mark.

It was a reminder she was surprised she needed, and she was glad that he was there to give it.

Their return was two days prior to the deadline she’d promised to meet. For just under two months, she’d been home, safe and hidden away in her Wilds. They’d gathered the notes, sent a corrupted unicorn to a peaceful rest in the world beyond, and even had time to swing by where Marcus had supposedly taken up residence. While they hadn’t found him, it had been a blessing to collapse in her own pile of blankets and snuggle down in them, able to at least pretend she wouldn’t have to leave them soon.

Without prodding, they’d ended up staying there for a few days, gathering a few reagents that hadn’t yet spoiled from her stores and packing up what few things of hers were still there.

She and Alistair had wandered the caves a bit, looking for red lyrium, but they hadn’t been able to find any signs of it, which left her wondering where Ser Barnebus had gotten infected. His hunting grounds had been fairly wide, but with their time limit in place, they hadn’t the time to search it, leaving Finley to send out more notes to the mages she knew, warning them of the red.

During her time out, Solas spoke with her, restoring her tentative trust in him. He only asked her once what she knew of demons, but when she’d bristled, he’d instead turned his talks to spirits and the Fade, which she hadn’t minded so much.

They talked of Cole in particular, of how he could have come to be in the real world, if many spirits might do so, and sometimes the spirit joined them to assure Finley that _she_ couldn’t just slip through like he had.

During one conversation, Cole had abruptly hugged her, and then let go, dropping sheepishly to the floor beside her as he whispered, “Even if she didn’t know not to hurt them, it wasn’t your job to tell her. You bear responsibility for too many pains that you couldn’t stop.”

It was surprising how much better she’d felt from just hearing those words. Maybe they weren’t real, were just a way for Cole to ease her pains, but she liked to think he was honest.

That had seemed to change Solas’ outlook on talking of spirits and the like as well, and they began to talk more of spirits’ purposes and how they were corrupted. That interested her more than any talk of demons.

More than that, she wondered if demons could be reverted back to spirits, to which Solas had said it was not so black and white, and that natures were fluid and…a lot of things that she’d sort of grasped, but felt like if she tried to summarize, she’d be wrong.

Still.

The trip had brought her some much needed hope. They had notes that might lead to a cure to the Blight and red lyrium, and perhaps demons could be made spirits again.

That rather abruptly made demons less frightening.

Granted, she still didn’t like the rampaging ones or the ones that wanted to make deals—that was still all of them, she supposed—but the concept of them felt more…manageable.

Even when she’d fought the ones around the seven rifts they’d encountered, she hadn’t been as nervous. Her enemies had been creatures she could study instead of indomitable monstrosities that were too clever to be truly beaten.

She and Solas were getting along better, now, though she still worried about what might happen if they let their guards down too much with her demon watching—that creature always watched, whether Finley felt her around or not.

When she hadn’t been discussing magic or spirits with Solas and Cole or searching for red lyrium with Alistair, Blackwall had taken to helping her with her Orlesian.

Alistair had helped with that too, possibly the most out of anyone.

While Blackwall had been helping her pronounce the word for tree, Alistair had dropped beside her, slouching back against the rock she was leaning against, and started making fun of the language itself. He’d purposely mispronounced words and had somehow roped her and Cole into singing a horribly butchered Orlesian song.

She still couldn’t really string a proper sentence together, but she was a bit bolder with her vocabulary now.

As their growing procession drew closer to Skyhold, even Solas’ assurances couldn’t completely combat the urge to hide somewhere.

Those precious weeks away had been such a blessing.

Now, she would be here a few days and then off to a place with even more people.

And the number of templars had definitely grown since she left.

However, the one thing that kept her from trying to turn her damned horse around or just trying to escape the masses and their intent gazes was that she would get to see Cullen again.

Her mind had wandered to him constantly, to the way his calloused hands felt sliding over her body, the feel of his breath on her skin, his weight on top of her. His arms around her as she fell asleep beside him.

He had been the reason she’d looked out over the crowds once they were moving fast enough that she needn’t address each person who came up. She knew he couldn’t leave the castle often because of his role in managing the army. But surely with word sweeping through the valley that she was back…

The first she saw of him was up on the ramparts, talking to a few guards—mostly templars from the looks of it. She’d fretted the whole journey that he would die before she came back, even after Alistair had explained that the withdrawal didn’t kill templars that quickly. That her warden hero had nearly become one had been curious, though she was grateful he hadn’t ever taken his vows or lyrium.

Even as Finley wondered if she wanted to dare their scrutiny if it meant a kiss from the commander, Leliana was there, ushering her away and assuring her that they would have a war meeting once she had a chance to rest and freshen up.

Josephine did not wait for a war meeting.

Instead, no sooner was Finley in her tower room, Josephine was sweeping through the door, greeting Leliana and then focusing on Finley. While a few servants brought up water for a bath—Finley preferred a small spot under the undercroft where she could wash up in the edges of the waterfall, not that she’d tell anyone for fear of the spot becoming popular and crowded—Josephine questioned her on her Orlesian.

She seemed mildly pleased that Finley’s language skills had made at least a little bit of improvement. However, rather than spend any time reveling in the accomplishment, she pulled a screen in between the two of them so that Finley could bathe in ‘privacy’ and kept talking.

There were things to be learned for the journey to Denerim. Did she know any Ferelden customs? Did she consider herself Ferelden? Did she know any of the Bannorn? Did she keep up with any politics?

When Finley finally snapped that she was a Wilder, not a damned Ferelden and that she didn’t see why she would need to know so many names when she was going to speak with only _two_ people, Josephine finally took a moment’s pause to sigh.

“Finley, please. Do not refer to King Cousland and Queen Anora as ‘two people’.”

“They are,” Finley muttered, stepping out of her tub as quickly as she could. She didn’t like sitting in water that was full of the grime that had been on her. She pulled her hair up in a tangled, wet mass and managed to tie it up before dressing quickly.

With uncanny precision, the folding wall between them snapped to the side as Josephine closed it and then called for the servants to take out the bath water.

Finley couldn’t help but wonder if Josephine had magic of her own.

Surely there was some reasonable way for her to be so…

As soon as Josephine saw her, she was fussing over her hair, taking it down and calling for another servant to dry it rather than let it dry on its own. When Finley darted out of their reach, Josephine explained that she had nobles to meet with after the war meeting, and it would be best to be ready before then.

When Finley started arguing that she’d _just_ gotten back, Josephine simply replied, “And that is why the dress fittings will be tomorrow.”

“More of them?” Finley hissed, without meaning to. The maid glanced at Josephine and then back. “Have you not already made me enough for years to come?”

“You do not wear these dresses every day,” Josephine explained. “Some you may only wear once.”

At that, Finley baulked. “If it can only be used a day, why make it at all? Set some nice curtains instead, make a blanket.” She looked at the maid, hesitating. Normally, she wouldn’t fight this too much, but she was tired and everything was resuming so quickly and she hadn’t gotten to see Cullen yet. She motioned toward the maid, hoping to have someone help her reason. “Would you wear something that could only be worn a day?”

The maid coughed into a hand, cheeks flushing as her gaze darted from inquisitor to ambassador and back. Finally, she gave them a small shrug. “Not regular clothes…” Even as Finley let out a triumphant ‘ha!’, the maid added, “but party dresses are supposed to be extravagant.”

Undeterred, Finley was ready to argue further, only for a sharp knock on the door to interrupt. Then Grand Enchanter Fiona glided into the room, smile in place, platitudes falling off her lips.

Finley wanted to scream.

…-…

The war meeting had been rescheduled for the morning.

Apparently the noble prats who were at the castle couldn’t afford to wait another hour or two to meet with the great inquisitor—and ‘herald’, though she ignored that part—and it had taken the entire afternoon and evening dealing with them and having disapproving looks from Josephine shot her way whenever she was about to say something that would likely be unappreciated.

Josephine definitely had some sort of precognitive magic. There was no way she could see things coming so clearly otherwise.

How did she hide it so well?

Finley certainly didn’t feel magic in her, and she hadn’t any of the templars’ attentions at all.

Sitting behind her desk where Josephine had left her, her head rested against a small stack of ‘reading materials’ that would be pertinent for Denerim. She was tired enough that she could fall asleep right there, though she knew better than that. She needed to slip downstairs to some quiet corner—though most of them looked to have been cleared out and occupied as the improvements to the castle continued.

Just as she tried to will herself to sit up so that she could go, she felt the faint prickle of a templar’s gaze in the back of her mind.

There was but one man who felt that muted.

Lifting her head, she blinked as she found him standing in her open doorway, hand poised to knock with the backs of his knuckles. What had to be at least a dozen papers were tucked under one arm, and her shoulders slumped at the mere sight of them.

 _More_ reading.

She felt oddly betrayed that it had taken paperwork for him to come see her.

Cullen gulped as he watched her and shifted on his feet, glancing toward the floor and then back over his shoulder before finally meeting her gaze. “Forgive me. I can see you’re tired—”

“Wait!”

The word was out before she realized she’d thought it, and she was out of her seat. She stopped just short of him, abruptly feeling a little foolish. She’d been thinking of the man for two months and now he was there and she…she wasn’t sure what to say, what to do.

She knew what she _wanted_ to do, but how to get there was…

If he wasn’t so tall, she could have just kissed him right there.

“I…” The word fell awkwardly off his tongue, and he shifted his weight again, just a short space away. His ears grew red as he mumbled, “I missed you.”

She felt warmth curling through her as well as she met his uncertain gaze with her own. “Me too.” Immediately, she frowned. “I mean, I didn’t miss me. That would be ridiculous. I missed—”

Her words cut off in time with paper hitting and sliding across the floor as a hand cupped the back of her neck and drew her to him, his lips hungrily moving against hers, desperate. She looped her arms around his neck as she stood on her toes, meeting his passion with her own.

He tugged her closer with a hand on the small of her back, fingers curling into her shirt.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, roughing up his smoothed back locks, allowing his curls to spring free at her touch. When one of her hands drew down to tug on his shirt, he released her long enough to jerk the fabric up over his head and then toss it to the side. He reached out and swung her door shut as he kicked out of his shoes and moved back to her.

She ran her fingers across his chest, feeling the soft dusting of chest hair across his muscles and pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

His hands cupped her cheeks as he turned her face back up to him, thumb brushing against her skin as he claimed her lips again.

There was a ferocity and strength in his touch, and it overwhelmed her, leaving her thoughts scattered and little more than the present with her, and all she could think was how much she wanted him there. With her, in her.

She panted softly as his lips trailed down her jaw and neck, his breath warm. His hands trailed down her, over her shirt to rest on her hips for a moment before he reached down, cupped her ass and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling herself closer to him, even as she moved one hand to pull her own shirt off.

However, Cullen moved them, still kissing her with a passion that left her breathless, and her back pressed against the wall. She forgot her shirt as he rolled his hips against her.

Her fingers dug into his shoulder as he moved against her. She could feel his length through their clothes, and she hated that they hadn’t shed them already. Even so, she rocked her hips against his in time with him, smiling against his lips when he let out a growl.

His eyes were dark as he pulled away from her, letting her slip back to the ground as his hands fumbled with the laces of his pants.

Finley dragged her nails gently down his chest as it rose and fell, kissing his skin again before thinking better of it and tugging off her own clothes. It wasn’t long before he was helping her along, his large hands pulling and tugging her free.

She’d barely kicked off her pants when his fingers were digging into her bare ass, again lifting her up. She felt giddy as the cool stone of the wall pressed against her bare back, a stark comparison to his body, warm and burning against her.

He nipped her neck, and she let out a soft whine that only encouraged him to do it again. His fingers tangled in her hair and he gripped her gently but firmly, tilting her head back so that he could press open mouthed kisses along her throat.

Tightening her legs around him, she rocked her hips against him, pleased when he let out low, growled, “ _Maker_ …”

He lifted his head, resting his forehead against hers a moment, catching his breath to speak. His lips were bruised and kiss-swollen, and she reached out, fingers brushing across them as she took in the flush on his cheeks, the way a few damp curls clung to his forehead, the way he looked at her with such…want.

She tugged him back to her, kissing him and coaxing him to open his mouth with the tip of her tongue. He surged back against her, forgetting whatever his earlier question was as she rocked against him again.

When they broke for breath again, she brushed the tip of her nose against his and nipped his lip, fingers wandering down his chest and stopping on his hip. She couldn’t find her voice and instead asked him with her eyes.

He searched her gaze a moment before kissing her, down her neck until his head rested against her shoulder. Pressing her closer still to the wall, he braced himself with one arm as he reached down with the other, angling himself so that he could slide into her.

She let out a soft cry as he filled her in one fluid motion. For a moment, the world seemed to still, and she closed her eyes as she savored this. The closeness, the feel of him, his breath and body against her.

When she finally opened her eyes, breath stuttering in her chest, Cullen was watching her. His fingers feathered against the bottom of her chin, tilting her head back again as he kissed her, gently this time.

Her whole body tingled.

Then he began to move inside her, slowly at first as they found their rhythm, and picking up speed with each thrust. She moved with him, holding him as tightly as she could against her.

His chest rumbled with each grunt and growl, and she pressed herself against him, wanting to feel every one work their way through her. Wave after wave of pleasure swept through her, through them both, and she forgot everything save for the feel of it, of him.

Finally, her world exploded in a brilliant flash of white stars and she let out a soft cry as everything disappeared into that heavenly light.

…-…

The candles had burned out some time ago, a little after they’d finally made their way to the bed, and Finley had to say it was a decent one, though truthfully, she probably only thought that because of the man next to her, who was slowly running the tips of his fingers up and down her bare back, sending shivers through her.

It had taken them a while to make their way to the bed, and she had a feeling that she’d be miserable in the morning from lack of sleep, though she couldn’t bring herself to regret anything they’d done.

Cullen was a blessing.

She’d had her share of flings since Aubrey, but she couldn’t remember having nearly this much fun with _anyone_. And they’d only been together twice thus far. The idea of what might come left her lightheaded and giddy.

A little voice warned her that if she kept this up, it was going to end up far more serious than anything she was looking for, but she ignored it as she felt Cullen’s gaze on her and opened one eye to peek up at him.

His eyes were heavy with sleep, and the movements of his fingers were getting slower and slower.

Moving onto her side so that she was facing him, she reached out and let her fingers trace down the side of his face gently, taking in the contours of his face, of the scar that ran up from his lip.

He was covered in scars. Magefire burns and cuts that had been made by daggers and claws. Most of them were old, though, and as she let her fingers trace down one near the center of his chest, she wondered what lessons he’d learned from them.

“I’m glad you’re back, safe,” he murmured, sleep sticking his words to his tongue.

With a flicker of a smile, Finley rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t run off with the mark and leave this mess to fix itself.”

At that, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm gently. It was her unmarked hand, the one with the mark curled close to her chest. He held her hand against his cheek his fingers locking loosely with hers. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m fond of more than just your mark.”

“Are you?” Finley feigned innocence, meeting the confusion that settled on Cullen’s features with batted eyelashes. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He let out a low bark of a laugh before reaching out and tugging her closer to him, moving so that he rested slightly on top of her. The skin around his eyes crinkled when she laughed, snuggling closer to him and stretching up to nip his throat.

“I’m glad you’re safe, too,” Finley whispered, closing her eyes and resting her palm against his chest. “Remind me to get a proper look at you in the morning, hmm?”

He settled down into the blankets beside her, hand running slowly up her arm and then down it. “What for?”

“I’ll need to get a better idea about your lyrium withdrawal if I’m to find a way to ease it.”

“Finley…”

It was funny how that word on his lips sent a thrill through her. She hadn’t even been Finley for a year, and already that name was hers so completely, and when he said it, she couldn’t imagine ever trying to go by anything else.

However, there had been a hesitation in his tone, and Finley looked at him, brow pinching together. “I don’t want you to hurt.”

“I deserve it,” Cullen murmured, turning his head away from her, into the pillow. His hand had stilled, his touch lighter, as though he was going to pull away.

Without thinking, Finley drew herself closer to him, pulling his arm around her and then reaching up to play with a few curls around his ear. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.” He looked back at her, something in his eyes. Pain? Fear?

Shame.

“I deserve to hurt, and I don’t deserve…” he trailed off, as though he were too afraid to say whatever was on his mind. As though saying it would make it true.

She didn’t know what he’d wanted to say, but she did understand the fear of it. Words held a power to them, and sometimes even a simple admission could bring things tumbling down.

“Do I have to set rank on you?”

He let out a disbelieving laugh as he looked at her, slightly bewildered. “Come again?”

“I do outrank you…” She felt a little unsure as she spoke, suddenly wondering what she was even trying to say. She said it regardless. “And if I say you shouldn’t hurt then that should matter. And people work better in general when they don’t hurt. And you’re not people in general. Well, you’re _a_ general, but that’s not really…the same…”

She trailed off.

He was biting his lip, trying to hide a smile as he watched her, and she abruptly buried her face in her pillow.

“I had a point.”

Her voice was muffled by the fabric. Just as she tried to think of how to make her point make sense, she felt the mattress shift beside her and then Cullen’s lips brushed against her shoulder.

“I will try to keep that in mind, inquisitor.”

The way he said her title affected her almost as much as how he said her name, and she felt heat burst to life in her cheeks. She waited a moment before peeking up at him again.

He brushed her hair back, that beguiling half-smile in place as he watched her.

“That I had a point?”

“That…” he leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth, pulling away before she could turn to make it a real kiss, “you need me to be able to do my job.”

With that, he slid to the edge of the bed. Finley scrambled after him, catching his shoulder before he could stand. “What are you doing?”

He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at her, that smile tugging on his scar as he said, “My job.”

“That can wait until morning,” Finley protested, sliding closer to him and wrapping an arm around his.

“When I came to see you…” Cullen started, turning back to her. His hand cupped her cheek before sliding down to rest against her neck. His thumb stroked her throat gently. “I had plenty left to do, but told myself that if I came to you to talk about reports, then I could still see you without wasting time.”

“Tonight was hardly a waste.”

“Not to us,” Cullen murmured, leaning forward to plant a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Unfortunately, we run an organization; one that’s growing quickly. I should have gotten more done yesterday. I have a day to get things in order so that things will run smoothly while we’re in Denerim.”

Reluctantly, Finley loosened her grip on his arm, settling back amidst the rumpled sheets. “But this isn’t the end.” When his eyes widened slightly, surprised, she hesitated. “I mean, us…this…”

“Maker,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her, lips moving against hers, molding in ways that were already becoming a welcome familiarity. “It seems too much to ask, but I want…this.”  

An odd warmth curled and settled in her chest at his words, and she let her hand slip away from him, giving him leave to go. Even as she resigned herself to his leaving, she perked up a little, despite herself. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“I’m sure your day is going to be hectic without me laying extra work on you.” He ran his fingers through her hair once and then kissed a few long locks before standing. “Get some rest. I’ll tell Josephine to let you sleep as long as you need. That might buy you an extra hour or two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I love hearing from you <3
> 
> I'm sorry that I don't really have a posting schedule atm. Real life is kicking my ass, haha.


	66. Apprehensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait in between chapters!

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a loud whisper hissed as Cullen strode up the stairs toward his office, drawing him out of his thoughts about the growing headache in the back of his skull, and the nausea that had been creeping through him since he’d woken up.

“No, I’m not. The bet is real and—”

As Cullen stepped up onto the ramparts, both soldiers jumped as though he were a darkspawn crawling out of the Deep Roads, coming specifically for them. Both of them snapped to attention so quickly that the movement did nothing to ease his nausea. Cullen couldn’t help but narrow his eyes.

The guilt on their faces was so plain, but he couldn’t figure out what it was that they were on about.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, ser!” They both snapped in unison, a bit louder than necessary.

His head throbbed.

Were they afraid of him?

“At ease,” he murmured, deciding that whatever their problem was, he would worry about it later. After all, they’d been talking about some bet, not an assassination attempt or anything dire.

And he already had enough to get done before they left in the morning.

If he could focus.

The nausea had hit him about an hour after he’d left Finley’s side, and it was like a curse, building up and curling within him, making it a fight to make sure his steps never faltered as he reached his office.

With any luck, it would pass quickly. The last few weeks, most of the times this mess reared its ugly head, it was little more than a small swell of a wave, and as much as he feared it breaking, it never did.

If he could just keep his mind focused, then everything would be fine.

After all, there was no reason for today to be any different. Any worse.

He’d barely had a chance to settle into his office and begin reviewing a few different documents with Knight Captain Rylen—his old friend was going to be left in charge while Cullen was away—when suddenly the door leading to the rotunda snapped open and Josephine stormed in, looking something akin to a vengeful goddess.

“Commander, a moment of your time, if you can spare it?”

Cullen’s head pounded, but he lowered the papers he was going through, and inclined his chin toward her. “Has something happened?”

“Our illustrious inquisitor has run off.” The usual patience in Josephine’s voice was thin, her arms crossed and a heavy frown replacing her usual smile. “If she happens by, would you be kind enough to bring her back to me?”

Even as he nodded, trying not to notice the way the edges of his vision wavered for a second, he reached up and scratched at the pain pooling at the base of his skull. “Gladly, but…wouldn’t Leliana and her scouts be better suited for this?”

At that, Josephine hesitated, only a breath. “I have already gone to her, but I thought it good to come to you as well, seeing as she does rather enjoy your company.”

Images from the night before flitted through his mind at that, of his fingers tangled in her hair, her body arching up into his, the feel of her beneath him, around him.

He found himself at a loss for words for a moment. Even as heat crept up his neck, making his headache throb a bit harsher, he nodded again, trying to focus on the matter at hand. He’d promised Finley he’d do his job, hadn’t he? “Ah, yes.”

“Be careful,” Rylen offered, a grin in place. “Have him turn her in too often and she’ll find a new friend to hide out with.”

The words stung. That she might grow wary of his company…

As Rylen’s smile slowly gave way to a questioning look, Cullen shook his head. It was just…a joke. He felt a bit of bile rising up in his throat, though he swallowed it down. It was a good thing he’d skipped breakfast.

Maker, this wasn’t going to be a good day, was it?

With a tired sigh, Josephine nodded to both men and shook her head. “I swear, sometimes I think I understand her, and then she just…snaps. I have tried to speak with her about what exactly it is that upsets her, but it just makes things worse. I—” Josephine quite abruptly realized what she was saying and snapped her mouth shut. After a pause, she nodded to them again. “Thank you for keeping a lookout.”

And with that she was gone, just as quickly as she had come.

Part of Cullen wanted to drop everything and start his own search, if only to make certain that Finley was alright. He could remember her after their fight in Haven’s Chantry, of how she’d panicked and had just crumpled to the floor, fear overwhelming her.

If that was what was happening now, he could understand why Josephine was at such a loss.

Further, if that was happening right now, he didn’t want her to be alone.

A pang of pain shot through his skull.

Now was not the time…

“I’m sure Leliana’s scouts will find her.”

Rylen’s voice was nearer than he expected, and he snapped his head up, startled. For a moment, the Knight-captain looked as surprised as Cullen felt, though his eyes grew gentler for just a moment. Cullen hated him in that second.

He didn’t need pity, didn’t need understanding.

He needed to do his damned job.

Making a point of focusing his gaze on the papers he’d been reviewing, his voice somehow managed to come back to him, strong and measured as he continued with their briefing.

Despite having been sure that he would be up all night working his way through reports and the like, he somehow found himself with nothing to do by midafternoon.

It was the first time this had happened since…well, since he’d joined the Inquisition.

There were reports still coming in, of course—there were always reports—but he’d already set Rylen up in his office to give the man and the scouts time to see how well they worked together and to have time to admonish anyone who felt they could treat the knight-captain differently than the commander, should such an instance occur.

Security for the trip was already in order, he’d checked everything over thrice, and there would be nothing more to do until they were actually leaving, in that regard. There were no plans of moving troops while they were away, aside from a few mineral gathering missions that had already been assigned.

Fortifications to Skyhold itself were still underway, but there wouldn’t be an update on that for another few days. Rylen would have to see to that.

And despite tensions between mages and templars, they didn’t seem ready to start anything just yet.

Hopefully, they never would.

Even as he wondered if perhaps he should try to get some rest—lunch was still out, with his stomach feeling queasy—though he dreaded the thought. Twice during his rounds with Rylen, he’d thought he’d seen…things in the shadows. Figures, monsters, twisted flesh and hulking, deformed shoulders, dark eyes that only reflected an inner malice. Creatures he’d been fortunate not to see since joining the Inquisition.

Sleeping was not going to be pleasant.

Last night had been so…perfect. It felt like he was being punished for allowing himself to get lost in another’s arms. Of allowing himself to forget everything that had happened and just live in that moment, arms wrapped around one another as smile pressed against smile.

What did she even see in him?

She’d called him too kind, once, though he still couldn’t fathom how she’d drawn that conclusion.

He wanted to be, though.

Before he’d met her, he’d just wanted to be a better person, to drag himself back from what he’d been, but now…he wanted to be the man she thought he was. Someone who actually deserved her.

Like that could ever happen.

“Still not there, still not good. Can one even be good themselves if they can’t see it in others? To see the good is so…hard. So hard not to hate, not to fear. What if a first impression is wrong? Better to be wary than dead. It’s so easy to be deceived. A monster hides behind even the prettiest eyes. Any eyes. _She_ proved it was possible that anyone could hide that sort of evil in them.”

Cullen blinked out of his thoughts and glanced toward the blonde boy standing beside him. He’d ended up on the ramparts, though he didn’t remember walking there.

He’d met the boy before, though he couldn’t place where.

“Any power can be corrupted,” Cullen murmured, mind flitting back to his former knight-commander at the boy’s words.

“And any evil can gain power if it’s ignored,” the boy agreed. “Diligence is a noble aspiration, but a difficult one.”

Cullen shifted a little where he stood, frowning. Uldred and Meredith were odd mirrors of each other. Both had worked right under the noses of those around them, poisoning minds and torturing those they felt were enemies.

The only difference was that he should have seen what Meredith was doing so much sooner.

He had. He’d known the things she did, and yet he’d turned a blind eye, telling himself she was the knight-commander and that it was her job to decide what force was necessary. It had been his job to keep the mages in the Gallows, to find them when they ran. He wasn’t there enough to know that her methods were too strict, even when the mages begged that they were.

That’s what he’d told himself…

Sometimes he wished he could tell himself that again, if only so he might rest a little easier.

It was a selfish, vile wish.

“You _are_ better than she was,” the boy offered as he began to walk. Without thinking, Cullen matched his pace. “It is hard to stand up to evil when you find it.”

“I didn’t find it,” Cullen muttered. “I knew it was there, and I let it fester. I helped it.”

The boy nodded slowly. “Yes, but you can’t change that. Better to move forward and keep what you’ve learned in your heart and head.”

“I try.”

“I know.”

With a blink, he was standing by himself on the ramparts, near the door to one of the towers. It was the one where he’d spoken to Finley about being a witch. His headache still drummed at the back of his head, but it was a bit softer than before, and he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she was up there.

He opened the door and felt as though the darkness inside was ready to swallow him whole. His heartbeat quickened and he gulped as he swung the door shut, feeling as though he were already trapped in the room, with the walls too close, not enough room to stretch, to breathe.

Whirling away, he gripped the wall of the battlements, gulping down air as he looked out over Skyhold, reminding himself that he wasn’t trapped in a little space, but in one that stretched out in every direction, the open sky overhead, wide and free.

As he managed to gather himself enough to let go of the wall, his gaze just happened toward the back of the barn. There, on an outcrop of wall behind it that was mostly hidden by a few trees growing there, a ledge that must have once served as another set of stairs, though the wall was far too debilitated to know for sure, was a bit of cloth stretched out. A slender hand moved it and he caught a faint flicker of green that went with it before disappearing back behind the barn.

Cullen took in a few slow breaths, eyeing the wall to see how one might get to that spot in particular. Not wanting to walk through the tower, he chose to backtrack, going down the steps carefully, feeling a little foolish that his balance wasn’t quite what it should be, and then wandering through the courtyard and into the barn.

Stable boys and Horsemaster Dennet were busily preparing for the trip in the morrow, with the older man barking orders and making that chaos move at his whim.

It was impressive, though Cullen quickly drew himself up the stairs to the second floor of the barn. There he found Warden Blackwall going over his own supplies and inspecting the different bags he had. The warden looked up and started to get out of his seat, though Cullen waved for him to stay where he was.

“Commander,” he nodded respectfully.

Even as Cullen glanced around, wondering if the warden would even know about the ledge behind the barn, the man coughed. When Cullen looked at him, he nodded his head to the side, gaze flicking with it and then resumed inspecting his bags.

Cullen stood there a moment before slowly walking the way he’d indicated. It seemed further from where he was trying to get, but as he looked around, he found an old window was opened and, if he stepped on the sill, he could pull himself up to the beginnings of a ledge a little way to the right of it.

Once he was up there, the roof of the barn made it impossible to follow the ledge without crawling on his stomach. Instead, he opted to carefully step across the roof itself.

Even as he wondered if he was being foolish, he looked up from where he was stepping to see the roof ended shortly and there, on the small space of the ledge beyond, was Finley.

She was in a rather lovely Ferelden styled dress, with the skirt spread out around her, except for the part she had pulled to herself where she was…

Maker, she was sewing the hem herself.

No wonder Josephine had been displeased to have her run off.

As soon as his gaze was on her, she was looking back up at him. There was a second of hesitation before she straightened up where she sat, relief flitting across her features.

It sent a shiver through him that merely seeing him could make her feel better.

He made his way the last few steps before hopping down to where she was. Two long strides took him to the edge of her skirt, and he tried not to frown when he saw that her sewing skills were wanting.

While the hem looked even at a glance, it was far too thick for a typical hem, and when he looked closer he realized that she had half a dozen threads winding around. The finished sections were wide enough that they gave the illusion of being neat, but at the closer glance, he could see that the threads crisscrossed over each other, filling gaps that had been left by others. The stitches themselves varied in length and there was no way to try to pretend that the part she was working on now was in a straight line. It reminded him of a half-starved, leafless vine, twisting its way across the fabric.

He doubted that was her intention.

When she patted the edge of her dress, fingers just barely brushing the stone beyond, he took the invitation and sat beside her, watching with poorly veiled amusement as she went back to the task she was taking most seriously.

“I suppose it is too much to hope that you are here of your own volition and not on Josephine’s behalf?”

“I doubt I’d have found you if she hadn’t let me know you were missing,” he admitted. He wished his was close enough to run his fingers through her hair, but he’d have to crawl across her skirt to do that, and he wasn’t about to leave shoe prints or scuff marks on the fabric. When Finley replied with a soft ‘humph’, he couldn’t help his smile.

Leaning forward as close as he dared, he peered up at her, catching her gaze. “Is there a reason you’re up here by yourself?”

“I thought you’d be busy today.” There was a hint of disapproval in her voice as she added, “You did leave rather early.”

“I wanted to make sure I didn’t fall behind,” he said, straightening out of his lean when he felt his world spin a little.

Even as he settled back, she followed, moving onto her knees, one hand propping herself up over her skirts as her other brushed against his forehead and then cheek. “You’re not well.”

The dress she was in was well fitting at the top, though it was a low cut, and as her hair spilled over her shoulders, he found himself rather distracted by the view of her collarbone and the skin beneath. His hand was halfway to her when she repeated her statement, moving and tugging her skirt out of the meticulous circle she’d set it in so that she could reach him better.

As she tilted his head back, fingers feathering over his neck feeling for swelling or other signs of illness, his gaze finally moved to her face.

Her lips were slightly parted, eyes lowered as she looked him over so that he could see just how long her lashes were.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

“A headache?”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t sure how he managed to find his voice, but as soon as he’d spoken, Finley frowned and settled back to her previous seat, busying herself with setting the fabric around her back into place. She looked mildly indignant, though she said nothing of his dismissal of his pains. He watched her resume her sewing for a few minutes before sighing. “You know, there are seamstresses here specifically to do that.”

“I wish to do this here.”

“Would you like me to show one or two of them up here to help you?”

The look she gave him was one of betrayal, and he was surprised at how sharply that hurt.

“Finley…”

Her gaze darted away from him, and he found himself resting his knees on her skirt anyway so that he could reach her. He brushed her hair back as she blinked up at him, surprised. As he tucked her hair behind her ear, he let his fingers curl around the shell of it, and he gently kissed her.

Whatever tension was in her seemed to drain at the mere touch of their lips. Their kiss was far gentler than anything last night, and yet it left his heart racing just the same. As he pulled away, she chased him just long enough to give him a quick kiss on his scar.

“There’s too much movement in Skyhold today,” she mumbled finally, slender fingers working the needle through the fabric, again and again. After a few more stitches, she dropped that thread and went back to one of the others that was waiting where she’d left the majority of them. As that second thread chased after the first, sometimes crisscrossing the stitches, he peered up at her, watching the murky expression that had taken hold.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just go somewhere quiet with Josephine so that she can help you with what you’ll need to know when you meet the nobles in Denerim?”

“Except it wouldn’t be somewhere quiet,” Finley retorted, frown deepening. “There would be the experts on Ferelden culture and the seamstresses and whatever other manner of people she decides to drag along with us. All rushing about, moving from one side of the room to the other, slipping behind me with sharp things…” She trailed off a moment before shrugging. “They’re saying the king doesn’t care for mages.”

“Who told you that?” Cullen asked. It was likely true enough, if what little Cullen remember of King Cousland remained true, but he could hope that someone had created some elaborate story that he could dismiss to allay her fears.

“No one.” Her voice wavered slightly and she cursed softly as she stuck her finger with the needle. It was healed before a drop of blood could tarnish her skirt, and she kept going. “Alistair dragged Leliana to whisper about it. Alistair doesn’t like him, said he’s cruel, that it would be better if Leliana went to speak with him alone.” She dropped that thread and started on another. “He helped stop the Blight, you know. King Cousland.”

“I know,” Cullen murmured. He sighed, reaching up and scratching at the back of his neck. His head still hurt. “But you don’t need to worry. I’m bringing our best guards—and Leliana, Cassandra, and I will all be there to protect you. And Josephine. She knows court intrigue like no one else, and while I may not understand the necessity of it, she’s saved a lot of blood from being spilled with what she does. Have faith in us, would you?”

“A general doesn’t outrank a king.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t stand between you and him if it comes down to it. I’ll make sure you stay safe,” Cullen offered.

“No.” He was surprised at the distress in her voice as he spoke. She shook her head furiously. “No. I don’t need people deciding to stand between me and whatever threat. I’m capable of taking care of myself.” Despite her words, there was fear in her voice. “I don’t need—”

Cullen leaned forward and caught one of her wrists, tugging her to him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her a breath, his chin resting in her hair, with her half in his lap. “Would it help if I told you have I no intention of letting anyone cut me down, even a king? We’ll escape together.”

She shifted in his arms. At first he thought she was moving to put distance between them, but even as he loosened his grip, she snuggled more firmly against him, head resting against his shoulder. “Good, because I don’t like leaving people behind.”

Even as Cullen pressed a quick kiss onto the crown of her head, Warden Blackwall’s voice interrupted them. “Commander? There’s a courier looking for you.”

It was then that Cullen realized there was a window closer to the ledge than the one he’d climbed out, though it didn’t have a good way to get up to where they were. Even as his shoulders slumped, Finley slipped back to where she’d been, resuming her task.

“You know I have to let Josephine know where you are.”

Finley sat a little straighter. “If you must.” Her gaze snapped toward him. “I’m not moving until this skirt is finished, though. She’ll have to come up here.”

With a low laugh, Cullen rose to his feet, shaking his head. The motion made him a little dizzy, but it was nothing he couldn’t work through. “I think you’re underestimating our ambassador, but I’ll let her know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	67. Fragile Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: mentions of child abuse

Spires of uneven green rock floated in the sky, with a few smaller, loose rocks punctuating the empty air. The path she was on snaked out into nothingness ahead, a few haphazard attempts at buildings hanging near, but not connected to it. Wisps played in the distance, darting after one another, an occasional arc of magic crackling between them as they teased and played.

And above it all, the Black City hung, it’s dark outline somehow standing out against the void around it.

The Fade was a bit more obvious than usual, almost clear—it was still too bright and too fuzzy, yet somehow she felt almost like she’d been drawn back into the Fade physically. Solas had mentioned that there were likely to be more side effects for the mark. Could this be one? Could it somehow draw her closer into the Fade?

The mere idea of it made her uneasy.

She tried to think back to her last memories. They’d started the trek to Denerim. Despite wanting to cuddle up to Cullen every night, he’d pulled her aside the morning they were to leave and explained that it would look unbecoming for her to be so intimate with her general. It would look like their relationship had sway over opinions and decisions.

Finley didn’t quite understand that, but she’d asked Josephine casually about it—she hoped it had been casually, as she didn’t want to get Cullen in trouble—and Josephine and Leliana had both confirmed it.

In the end, it boiled down to politics.

Josephine had seen Finley’s irritation and offered her that a quiet relationship out of the public’s prying eyes wouldn’t be so frowned upon.

Finley didn’t see that it mattered. If they both did their jobs, what did it matter if they were sleeping together?

And why couldn’t they on the trip up? It was just sex. It wasn’t like she was demanding he march the templars a certain way or she would flit off in the middle of it to leave him to please himself.

He was right there, and yet she was expected to treat him like any other person in the Inquisition.

It frustrated her more than she would have expected.

_Curious. I would not have expected you to fall so readily for a templar._

Her stomach turned at that familiar non-voice, that echo in her mind that never quite reached her ears.

Whirling around, Finley grew still.

A desire demon—her desire demon—lounged a short ways behind her, the demon playing with a wisp and swooped and danced around her hands and horns, like a pet of some kind. With a wave of her hand, the wisp flitted off into the sky, disappearing with surprising quickness.

As Finley’s gaze snapped back down to the demon, breath held that the creature might have drawn closer, she found her still relaxed, though her dark eyes were on Finley, unblinking.

Long nails tapped lazily against an imitation of a large, mossy rock that she had seated herself on.

Finley knew that rock. It was one of her favorites in the Wilds.

She didn’t like the demon resting there, even if it was just an echo of the real thing.

What bothered her, more though, was that she hadn’t felt the demon’s presence, hadn’t even known she was being watched. Did that mean that the fear demon she’d felt after her before might still be watching her as well?

How exactly did Solas’ charm work?

_You needn’t fret. You are safe._

Despite herself, she was almost disappointed that the demon still bore the telling traits of desire. After a few of Finley’s talks with Solas on the way back from the Wilds about how perception played a great role in what was seen in the Fade, she’d half wondered if she would see the creature differently, but the creature was still a desire demon, horns curving up and away from a ghostly face, black eyes with slit, white pupils watching her.

Always watching…

Finley wasn’t sure what to do. It had been years since the demon had come directly into her dreams like this. She knew Finley didn’t want her around.

The creature stretched languidly and sat up finally, appraising her carefully.

_We must talk._

The words had been serious, echoing far less than most things did in the Fade, as though they were trapped in a small space. Her demon had never done this sort of thing before, though Finley had heard of it. She’d heard horror stories of other mages facing demons in their Harrowings, of how the demons manipulated the world to pull them in. To be let in.

That was not about to happen.

Frowning, Finley whirled away from the demon, only to find the scene she’d just turned away from in front of her. Echoes of both Donovan’s and Solas’ suggestions to confront the creature whispered in the back of her mind—no doubt easy for the creature to read—but Finley rejected them.

 _Once you preferred me, you know._ The demon let out a wistful sigh. _You asked for me. You wanted your mother to bring her ‘black eyes’ back._ There was an odd fondness in those words.

The world around them shimmered and twisted and suddenly between the two of them, Finley saw a tiny, child’s version of herself, sitting with her mother—with the demon wearing her mother.

 _“Bird,”_ the demon murmured as she patted a finch on the head with a finger.

Finley’s tiny hands wrung together as she inched closer, whispering the word _. “Bir.”_

 _“Bir_ d _,”_ the demon reiterated.

Tentatively, Finley patted the bird, a little roughly, on the back. With a shiver, it took flight, soaring off into the sky. Finley watched it with wide, wondering eyes, a single laugh slipping out before she hushed herself, looking at her mother, as though to see what the response would be.

The demon simply smiled and drew her closer, holding her in her lap and petting her hair.

Finley stared up at the sky, watching the great blue stretch out overhead _. “Bir…”_

Pulling her attention away from the quiet moment, Finley scanned their surroundings, feeling dread curling inside of her. She couldn’t stay here. She searched the air and their surroundings for signs that a spell was in place. If she dispelled it, she could leave…

_You will not ignore me today._

Finley glanced at the creature to see her past the frozen memory, standing close to the conjured image of a peaceful Finley with…that.

Finley took a careful step back.

_Child, you test me._

“I’m not a child.” Finley hissed, despite herself.

More images burst to life around them, of her mother’s possessed form rocking her when she was little, teaching her other words, patting her head and telling her she would keep her secret if she cried.

Even as panic began to roil in her, Finley shook her head. Even as she tried not to let herself get swept up in the memories spilling forth around her, her gaze happened on her hand. Even here in the Fade, her hand was marked with that same, shimmering green.

An idea sprung to life, and abruptly she brought up her left hand, clenching her fist. The mark crackled and the images melted away.

For a moment, the two of them were silent. It was easily the first time that she’d ever directly challenged the demon in such a manner, and she felt fear prickling up her spine.

The demon looked mildly put out, though she simply shook her head. _I told you not to fret. I’ve already rummaged through enough minds to know that children are rarely grateful to their parents._ There was a hint of indignance in that last bit.

Shaking her head, Finley glared. “You’re not—”

Before she could finish, the demon was in front of her, almost nose to nose. She motioned around them as though she might bring back those earlier memories. _Who fed you? Who bathed you? Who taught you your first words? Who kept them from drowning you in every puddle they came across?_

Without meaning to, Finley winced at the last part, remembering her father’s complaints clearly. The Fade brought them back, a harsh, crisp edge to his disdain.

_“Better to drown the rat than let that thing keep playing with it.”_

Finley didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to delve into the past, into all the things that had happened. She didn’t like to think back to before her time with Ser Caudry and the others.

Her host was of another mind. _I have cared for you your whole life, even if you pretend you don’t remember. I’ve kept you safe from demons and mages alike._

The words were a challenge, an assertion that she could neither flee from nor ignore. The words ‘don’t cry’ echoed in her head as she tried not to panic. She took in a slow, ragged breath, meeting the creature’s stare. “Don’t pretend _you_ never hurt me.”

For an instant, the demon looked truly, honestly distressed by the accusation. Her gaze broke away from Finley’s as though rummaging through her own memories. Then, at length, the creature shook her head. _I did not. I protected you._

Finley stiffened. “ _You_ told him my blood would help his spells.”

_I never bled you. I held you safe._

Without thinking, Finley’s face twisted with anger. “If not for _you_ , he wouldn’t have _bled_ me, _hurt me_ , at all!”

_He would have done far worse had I not intervened._

“It still hurt!”

The Fade twisted at her words, cracks shooting through the rock around them, jagged and empty. Everything felt too empty. There wasn’t enough air in the Fade, though that shouldn’t have been much of a surprise. Funny that she would need so much in a dream, though…

Stepping back, the demon looked truly unsettled by Finley’s words, as though they were some great revelation. Finally, her voice whispered out, far fainter than usual. _He needed a reason to keep you._

Finley’s shoulders shuddered. “No, he didn’t.”

_Children are supposed to stay with their parents._

“Not when they’re murdering, sadistic monsters!”

At that, the demon did something she hadn’t expected. Her eyes widened and then she looked away, as though searching for something and finding the Fade empty of it.

Finley felt light-headed and sick.

Could this thing in front of her really have never realized what she was doing was wrong?

The memories of the boy being let go, of all the others who had died when she didn’t want them to, came bubbling back. She tried not to think, not to let the Fade catch hold of them and bring them to the surface to be reenacted.

_I do not know how to fix what has been done._

“You can’t.” The words were barely a whisper. She needed to wake up.

For a moment, the demon looked so incredibly hurt. The world around them shifted, the rocks more spiked than before, as though reflecting the creature’s distress. With both of them miserable, the Fade itself seemed to crumble away.

 _I could…_ She stopped herself with a sigh. _You would not accept that._

The creature looked disappointed when Finley didn’t ask about what she had thought of. Disappointed, but not surprised.

 _I will leave you to your dreams of that pretty thing you curl up with at night_ , the demon offered, though the fact that she knew of Cullen left a bit of a pit in Finley’s stomach, _but_ —

“You can’t hurt him.” Wake up, wake up, wake up…

The demon shrugged her command away as though it were nothing. Instead, her tail flicked behind her, agitated. After what looked to be an internal debate, finally, she turned away, flicking her hands up in defeat. _Much more of this and I will forget why I drew you here._

Finley tensed, though the creature either didn’t notice her fear or ignored it.

 _This king you seek to ally yourself with. He considers himself a witch hunter._ The demon stopped a few feet away, glancing back over her shoulder. _He fears neither Flemeth nor her daughters, and will not care if blood does not tie you to them. And more than that, he has evidence of who your blood_ does _tie you to._

For a moment, the Fade was eerily silent.

Finley was having trouble concentrating. The world spun, and she was rather sure it wasn’t just a whim of the Fade. Wake up…

“Why tell me this?”

 _For the same reason I drew you out of the Nightmare’s realm. For the same reason I always…_ The demon trailed off, looking forward again, body rigid.

“I never asked for your help.” Finley clarified, feeling that usual dread bubbling back up. “I owe you nothing.”

The demon let out a half laugh at that. It rang bitter, though when she spoke again, she didn’t argue. _One last word of advice, whether you take it or not…_ _The king and your newest playmate have seen eye to eye in the past. He may have left that Order of his, but he’ll always be a hunter, and we both know what you are._

No sooner had the words been spoken, the Fade shifted to something resembling sprawling fields, with large trees climbing lazily toward the heavens.

Finley’s eyes snapped open, and she jerked upright, her breath catching in her throat. Someone help her, but she couldn’t breathe. It was as though the air had been squeezed out of her lungs while she was in the Fade. No wonder she’d been so lightheaded.

Even as she tried to breathe, she felt something twisted around her ankles legs.

Half-awake as she was, she was sure the templars were making their move.

She flailed against the restraints, kicking and clawing until they came undone and fell away from her. As she dragged herself away, looking about at her surroundings to see how many of her attackers there were, she slowly realized that she was in her tent. As he gaze snapped back to her discarded bindings, she found her blanket, bunched up and torn in a few places.

“Inquisitor?”

She jerked her attention toward the flap of her tent, hunching closer to the ground. She didn’t know that voice.

“Are you alright?”

“Go away.” She snapped back.

There was a shuffle outside, and then the shadows moved to rearrange themselves across the tarp separating her from whoever that had been.

There were too many people here…

With barely a thought, she ducked out the back of the tent as quietly as she could and wove her way through the shadows until she found a sizable tree at the edge of camp.

Only when she was perched safely in the upper branches did her heart finally begin to slow. The wind was sharper and stronger in the upper branches, and she gulped down that cold, clear bliss. As the fears and fight drained out of her, she leaned back against the trunk, closing her eyes.

She wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight.

She heard what sounded like the whimper of a wounded animal, and even as she stopped to wonder what it was, she realized that she was the one making that noise. Tears spilled unwanted down her cheeks, and her chest heaved, even as she tried to tell herself to stop being so pitiful.

This was that stupid demon’s fault.

There was no way what she’d said had really been news. She’d thought those things so many times, it should have been able to pick up on them so long ago. That it could sit there and pretend like that…

Vile thing.

Vile liar.

Like she would trust something so wicked. Josephine had told her of the king’s mannerisms already. He did not like mages, but that hardly made him a witch hunter.

And Cullen…

Cullen was a good man. He wouldn’t…

“Finley?”

She nearly fell from her perch as the word broke through the quiet.

Curling in on herself, she dared a glance to her left to find Sera half hanging from one of the branches near her, brow pinched together, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Relief flood through her, and she shuddered as she slumped against her drawn-up legs, resting her forehead on her knees.

The branch she was on creaked as Sera settled onto it in front of her. When she finally had the strength to lift her head up, Sera was leaning toward her, worried.

“If…” Sera trailed off a moment before pointing down at the camp. “You got someone bothering you, you let me know, yeah?”

Finley took in a few deep breaths before forcing an awkward smile. “Going to steal their breeches?”

“Pft,” Sera scoffed softly, frowning. “Deserve more than that for hurting you.”

Even as Sera mumbled something about candlewax in their ears, Finley reached up and ran her fingers through her hair. Her pinky caught on a twig caught in her tangles, and she frowned, reaching up to work it loose.

“So?” When she realized Sera was watching her expectantly, Sera rolled her wrist as though to drag information out. “What’s got you fleeing camp in the dead of night to cry in old trees?”

As she finally got the twig loose—with a few lonely strands of orange still caught around it that made her scalp sting for an instant—she sighed and dropped it. She opened her mouth to respond, though nothing came at first. Finally, she shook her head. “Bad dream.”

“Oh, hate those,” Sera offered, relaxing a little as she settled more comfortably on the branch, only to scowl and awkwardly half fall, half swing herself to another when it creaked ominously. When she was safely perched on a nearby branch so that they could still talk, she leaned against the trunk. Then, almost instantly, she perked up. “Best way to get rid of nasty feelings up here,” she tapped her head, “is to do something good. Something fun.” She drummed her fingers against the branch as she peered down. “Gotta be something we can do. Something that won’t hurt nobody, but could cause a laugh or two… We could—”

“Inquisitor?”

That was a familiar tone that normally would have sent a shiver up her spine. However, now, as Finley peered down to see Cullen standing at the edge of camp, peering around—with an occasional look up, though he hadn’t spotted them yet—she couldn’t help but remember what her demon had said.

_He’ll always be a hunter._

“Wanna stay quiet ‘til he goes away?” Sera asked, frowning down toward the man.

She was a bit surprised how much she wanted to say yes, though instead she shook her head. “They’ll…” she didn’t like the words that came next, “need to know where I am.”

“Piss,” Sera muttered. “Point of that is to keep you safe, yeah? I got you up here.” She gave Finley a reassuring nod, though she sighed when Finley did. “Alright. Don’t tell him I’m here though. Had to sit through a whole speech about proprieties and necessities and all that shite. Didn’t listen to half of it, but got the gist. They don’t want me near their precious nobles. ‘fraid I might ruin something shiny and new.”

Even as Finley let out a soft laugh, Sera rolled her eyes and motioned down. “I’ll wait ‘til you lead him off, then.”

Carefully, Finley went down the tree, twisting around to the side furthest from Cullen and slipping quietly to the ground.

As she turned around, she just about had a heart attack when she turned to find Cullen mere feet behind her.

_He’ll always be a hunter._

“You needed something?” She asked, trying to sound as innocent as she could.

Rather than answer right away, Cullen breached the distance between them and reached out to cup her cheek. “I received word that something was wrong, and when I came to check on you, you were missing.” His thumb stroked her skin softly. “You’re pale and…” He didn’t point out the obvious that she’d been crying.

A million different thoughts raced through her mind, so jumbled that they did little more than leave her feeling sick.

“Cullen, did you ever—” Her voice cut off as she started to ask about what the demon had said about him agreeing with King Cousland.

She was being ridiculous. There was no reason to listen to that monster.

None.

It was just trying to steal one more person from her, like it always did.

Without thinking, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his tunic’s shoulder. For a breath, he stilled and she thought he would protest about all that damnable professionalism and the like.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, fingers in her hair and holding her close as he bowed his head, pressing a soft kiss to her head.

“Things will work out in our favor in Denerim.” His voice was calm and confident, though she felt his heart beat a little faster and knew he was making it up as he spoke. “We’ve done a lot for Ferelden already, so I don’t see how anyone can argue against the good we’ve done.”

Despite his reassurances, and his offers of Ser Barris knowing nobles and Josephine being quite good at what she did and the like, Finley’s mind couldn’t stay focused.

Even as she rested against him, her mind kept going back to what the demon had said.

There were so many questions that came with that, and she wanted to ask them all, to clear the air and know beyond a doubt that Cullen was the man she thought he was, that he was good and kind, as he’d proved to be over and over.

Yet…

Yet asking any of them felt like she was letting the demon influence her, and ridiculous as it was, _that_ scared her more than anything else.

After all, she’d promised herself, hadn’t she? Again and again, as her world expanded and fell apart.

She would never fall to a demon’s sway.

Never.

Even if she was a demon’s daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	68. Dear Orlais

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the long wait in between chapters! 
> 
> This chapter has some canon violence in it; just a heads up.

The backwoods of Orlais were miserable, much like the rest of the country, if Varric was to be perfectly honest.

It was hard to believe the Inquisition was barred from entering Orlais, considering how easily Varric’s group had gotten through…and that was with Hawke starting a small brush fire, Rivaini pilfering a manor’s wine cellar, and Barkington the mabari simply existing in their party.

Varric had always assumed that the mere essence of Orlais would expel a war dog, and yet here they were, in a cold, bitter hellscape, looking for signs of red lyrium.

The first week hadn’t been so bad, all things considering. It had been colder than the Ancestors’ dusty balls in some long-forgotten sect of the Deep Roads, but they’d had each other and all the stories to catch up on.

Then their stocks had run low, which they hadn’t really considered to be too big of a problem until they dared the nearest town to see about restocking.

That was when they hit their first hiccup.

Prices were outrageous.

Worse, from the looks of things, they hadn’t been merely hiked up because of Hawke’s Ferelden accent. As they’d found every inn to be priced too high in this frigid area and every vendor to practically demand a first born for a loaf of bread, they’d come across a few Orlesians begging for a place to stay as well.

“If you do not like the prices, then go somewhere else,” the innkeeper had snapped.

“Where?” The oldest of the children had cried out. “Le Phrelle is ashes thanks to the grand duke’s men. If we try to go back, they will drag us to dig their ditches and work us ‘til we die!”

At that, the innkeeper had winced, though she’d stood firm. “You think they’re doing any different to anyone else? We’re lucky to get a fraction of our supplies here, and when we do, it’s leftovers the soldiers didn’t want to steal. Do not complain to me about prices!”

Rivaini had been the first to slip back, tugging Hawke with her. When they were further from the argument, she let out a low whistle. “I’d heard there was a civil war. Didn’t think it would be quite so…”

“Lighthearted?” Varric offered sarcastically.

“Do you think we could do something?” Hawke had asked—something he would end up asking over and over during their trip.

One thing that Varric had never been able to understand was how Hawke could still want to help people after everything, after Kirkwall. Yet there he was in Orlais, trying to figure out how to get food to villages and all manner of other little tasks.

His first thought had been to hunt the surrounding areas, but game was already scarce, as the locals had obviously thought of that.

It hadn’t been until they’d sent word back to the Inquisition about the condition of the villages they were coming to that Varric could get him back on track.

After all, they were there looking into reports that red lyrium was growing in Orlais, and more than that, Dagna had given them a small contraption that she thought would help keep them from being overwhelmed by the red lyrium’s power.

They couldn’t afford to dally helping with a civil war for a country that didn’t even recognize their right to help.

In the end, they parted with more coin than they wanted to restock, already planning for lighter meals.

After two weeks of trying more and more to stretch their supplies, they were ready to head back to Skyhold and declare the report false. Stupidly, Varric was the one to declare they look around one more day before heading back.

And of course, it had been near dusk when they’d happened across the worst thing they could find.

It was an old, decrepit mine shaft that was slanted so dangerously that Rivaini had to be bribed to even consider setting foot in it, as she didn’t particularly feel like getting crushed by an entire mountain. Ever an ocean’s soul, she hated going underground now as much as she had in Kirkwall, though Hawke had been able to drag her along for a few adventures.

Fortunately, the bribe proved unnecessary.

Or, unfortunately, really.

The red lyrium was in the mine, no doubt. Just peering through the shadowy opening, one could see chunks of red protruding from the mine’s walls, glowing with that eerie, stifling presence.

However, as they came out of the woods that marched close to the cliff the mine was built into, more of the cliff itself came into view.

Red lyrium was also growing up the side of the mountain like a wicked, twisted vine of rock, interrupted occasionally with horrifying eruptions of larger red crystals that jutted out from a single point like bastardized flowers before smaller shards continued upward.

Hawke took a few steps back as he peered up at it, shrinking away—Barkington wouldn’t even come close, instead growling from a few yards back in the woods. “Do you think this could be what’s making the soldiers so…awful?”

“In the entire country, sweet thing?” Rivaini murmured, reaching out and lightly gripping his sleeve. “Though… It _was_ a little idol that drove Bartrand mad. This is…too much.”

“I have a feeling the war is bad because that’s what war tends to be,” Varric offered, wishing he could blame people’s darker sides on something like red lyrium. “At least this place doesn’t seem too close to any settlements.”

“But how much of it is underground?” Hawke whispered, gaze dropping toward the entrance. For one, agonizingly long moment, Varric worried Hawke might try to go in, but instead he shook his head. “How is it spreading so fast? Corypheus?”

“That’s why we’re here for samples.” Varric felt his stomach drop as he looked up at the massive crystals. Some of them were bigger than Hawke. “There’s gotta be answers somewhere, right?”

Hawke dared a step closer, though Rivaini gripped his shirt tighter to stop him from going further. “Even if we get samples, we can’t leave this.”

“Love, we can’t exactly get rid of it,” Rivaini whispered, gripping his arm more firmly as she dragged him back a few paces. “We don’t even know how long we have near this before _we_ start to go mad.”

That was enough to get Hawke to back up a bit while they talked, though he stood firm as soon as Barkington felt it was safe to come over to them and sit next to her master. “We can’t leave that there.”

“And how do you suppose we destroy it?” Rivaini argued, crossing her arms. While she hadn’t wanted to, she’d bundled up once they’d gotten into the colder reaches of the mountains, and her coat made her look almost like she was puffing up in defense. “Even if we break it, there will still be pieces. It cancels magic. And it’s _growing_ from the ground, so it’s not like burying it will do anything.”

“And blowing shit up just makes the pieces smaller…and more spread out.” Varric sighed, stepping over to Barkington and scratching behind one of the beast’s ears. She let out a pleased growl, though she quickly shook her head and leaned away, ears perked up as she listened for something.

Both Rivaini and Hawke winced at Varric’s words, their minds easily going back to what had happened in Kirkwall two years ago…

Almost three now.

“We could ask Alistair, when we get back to Skyhold,” Rivaini offered, reaching out to rest her hands against Hawke’s breastplate. “I’m sure we can find a way, but it won’t be out here, and it won’t be now.”

Hawke ran his hands through his hair, face twisting through a variety of expressions, all ones that Varric knew well. He was fighting internally, trying to think of solutions and then dismissing them as he found them wanting.

It had to be rough, considering that Hawke felt responsible as much as Varric did. They’d been the ones to bring up the idol. They hadn’t sealed that part of the Deep Roads properly—if such a thing could truly be done.

Sure, it was possible that maybe that wasn’t the only source of red lyrium, but it felt like it had to be connected. After all, none of the stuff had been present before that damned idol.

Or before Corypheus had gotten out.

Hawke had whispered once, a few nights ago, that he didn’t get how Corypheus could have come back, and if the damned darkspawn had, then how could anyone expect Stardust to beat him.

Because people did. It was an unspoken part of ‘fixing the world’. The Inquisition was going to restore the world and punish those responsible for causing so much damage, and that meant they were going to fight what seemed to be an immortal.

“Should we even bring any back?” Hawke finally asked. “What if what happened to Meredith happens to the people in Skyhold?”

“If we don’t at least try to do something,” Varric said, a curl of dread coiling inside of him, “this is going to happen all over.”

“Then let’s get the samples and get out of here,” Rivaini snapped, shuddering.

With a short consensus, they headed back, and Varric tried not to shudder himself as he and Hawke walked right up to that bright red blemish crawling up the mountainside.

They should have known something was off when Barkington came with them, but it wasn’t until the beast was snapping angrily and Rivaini was yelling for them to take cover that they realized they were no longer alone.

Foolish as it was, they’d just wanted to get the lyrium and get out of there and, considering they hadn’t been gone _that_ long, hadn’t thought to look around for anyone else.

If _they_ could be called anyone anymore.

Red templars.

Of course Orlais had red templars.

They should have seen this coming, really.

Hawke was tackled from the left, though Barkington threw herself into her master’s attacker, allowing Hawke to roll to the side and get his blade in his hands before the templar could recover. He was one of the smaller ones, but he was still stronger than he should have been.

He flung Barkington away. The war dog managed to flip around so that she still landed on her feet. However, even as she moved to help her master, a lyrium shard thudded into the ground just inches behind her as she ran.

With a curse, Varric jerked Bianca from his back and whirled on the enemy, firing the second he saw a gangly figure loping toward them.

His first bolt struck the red templar in his shoulder, but they didn’t even slow their pace, instead letting out a hellish scream as more lyrium pushed out of their body, ready to be flung.

His second bolt landed solidly in the center of the creature’s forehead.

It was a relief that that actually took the damned thing down.

From what he’d heard, these guys were damned near unstoppable.

He barely had time to revel in his victory, however, as another half a dozen broke through the tree line.

An archer fell to Rivaini’s blades before she ducked back into the shadows to loop around behind another of the furthest templars, and Varric shot the nearest red templar to the one she’d taken down to make sure no one realized they were being picked off from the rear.

As he aimed another bolt at the same templar, hoping to get him down before retreating from the charge, Hawke and Barkington swept past him, yells and barks drawing attention away from him.

Hawke beheaded the first to meet him, and let his momentum carry him into the next, his blade clashing with their lyrium-covered arm.

Rivaini joined the fray properly as she dispatched another of the smaller templars, only for yet another to notice her.

Barkington snapped and clawed angrily at the one going for Rivaini, trying to keep their attention.

Despite Hawke’s attempt to keep the remaining templars’ focused on himi, the last two continued toward Varric.

He finally took down the one he’d been working on, and moved to put some distance between himself and the last of the damned creatures.

However, even as he backtracked, a piece of red lyrium flew over his shoulder.

From behind him.

Turning, his heart sank as another half dozen red templars came out of the woods from the other direction, as though they were all converging on this damned point.

Considering this was a red lyrium mine, it did make sense that they’d have people on guard, though how their group had made it past them to begin with baffled him. They weren’t the most discrete lot.

He didn’t have time to wonder about the odds, and if Seeker would call bullshit on this story, like she did all his other fight scenes that had ‘waves’.

As the red templar who had been after him reached him, Rivaini’s blades sunk into his neck, sending the creature tumbling to the ground.

Even as she readied to go after another, an arrow slammed into her shoulder, spinning her to the ground.

She let out a low curse as Varric moved closer to guard her, picking out the archer and getting off a lucky shot right through the forehead again.

Even as he tried to figure out which of their attackers he should go after next, Hawke and Barkington were again charging forward.

However, this time, Hawke was caught off guard as a behemoth charged out of nowhere—it had to have come from the way they’d come, which made it even more bizarre that they’d made it this far.

The behemoth slammed Hawke and Barkington both into the air, and it was like slow motion as the two’s bodies flew up, sword leaving Hawke’s hand, bits of lyrium and armor and blood cluttering the air around them.

With a low curse, Varric shot a quick barrage into the oncoming group, managing to take out another. When he glanced to where Rivaini had been, she was gone, and he felt a fleeting sense of relief. At least she wasn’t hurt so badly that she couldn’t get up.

He sprang out of reach of their attackers, whirling around to get a feel for the battle. With the behemoth joining the remaining four, it was hard to see who was where, because there was just so much red lyrium.

How long did they have before they would start getting affected by this stuff? They needed to retreat.

They needed…

Something sharp cut into Varric’s side, and he stumbled to the ground. Bianca landed just out of reach, and he grabbed a handful of dirt, hoping to toss it into his attacker’s eyes, if nothing else.

As he rolled over to see the rogue templar who had snuck up on him, however, something stopped him.

Even with all the clashing of weapons and cries and hisses and barks and yelps, it somehow faded into mere background noise as he looked up at his attacker.

Or rather, the large stone hand that was gripping his attacker by the head.

Before he could even fully register what was going on, the red templar who had snuck up on him was being flung through the air. In their place stood a large creature that he would have recognized anywhere, even if he had never seen one in person before.

A golem.

An honest-to-Ancestors golem was standing in front of him.

In Orlais?

The golem looked down at him, expression unimpressed as it caught a second red templar that attacked it and bashed them into the cliff face with complete indifference. As the body crumpled to the ground, the golem glanced back at Varric let out a disgruntled cluck. “I do believe I saved it before its brains could be bashed, so why does it sit there and do nothing, I wonder?”

It took Varric a moment to realize the golem was talking about him. As soon as that sunk in, Varric filed this away as something to deal with later. With all the stuff that happened to him when he was around Hawke, he should have expected something like this.

Even with the behemoth, the rest of the fight went much quicker.

The behemoth was still a nightmare, but the golem was surprisingly agile, and with all of their attention on it, they managed to take the damned thing down once they’d finished picking off the smaller templars.

As it fell, there was a hush that fell over the mine’s entrance as they all stood there, half waiting for more red templars to come after them—maybe up from the mine itself.

When no more enemies were forthcoming, the golem knelt down and poked at the behemoth, letting out a low hum. “Unfortunate.”

Hawke gulped down a few breaths as he staggered over, leaning heavily to one side. “Come again?”

“I find it admirable to wish to shirk what was no doubt a squishy form at some point…” The golem rose to their feet, nudging the behemoth with their foot. “However, I think it went about this wrong. Not that there is a right way, I suppose.”

Rivaini limped over, holding one arm, where she’d been injured by the arrow. Barkington stayed near her, favoring one paw as well.

Varric hesitated as he checked over Bianca for scratches that would need to be smoothed out, and then glanced around. His side ached, but he’d live. “Don’t…golems have controllers?”

“It will keep to that line of questioning if it wishes its skull to be bashed like the others.” Even as Varric’s gaze snapped toward the golem to see if they were really willing to attack when they had just saved them, the stone creature sighed. “I am free to do as I please, and it pleases me to fight these…failed golems. It and its friends are terrible fighters,” as the golem spoke, Hawke straightened up, indignant, “but it is the first time I have seen anything willing to fight them at all. If it will pick out the shards that stick in me, I will keep it and its friends’ squishy bodies as intact as I am able.”

Hawke let out a disbelieving laugh as he wobbled where he stood, staring up at the mass of sentient stone. “Well, you’ll be glad to know that we’re not the only ones fighting them.”

“Oh? I see it was a better idea than I thought to save the little fleshy things. Let us retreat, and it may tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for putting up with my miserable updating schedule. <3


	69. If It's Not One Thing...

Skyhold felt a bit empty, even though Dorian was absolutely certain that there were more people present than ever before—granted, they were mostly in the ever-growing village by the river, but that was hardly the point.

The illustrious herald and her advisors had headed off to Denerim, taking a sparse few party members with her, and while Dorian understood why she’d left him behind—the King wasn’t fond of mages, and he doubted that one from Tevinter would be seen in a better light—he couldn’t help but feel a little put out by it.

He hadn’t really come south to save the day, but he’d…

Well, he _had_ expected to be at least a little bit useful.

It was bad enough that he’d lost the library to the tranquil. They were so eerie that it made his soul cold just standing near them, staring into their lifeless eyes and listening to them drone on in absolutes, never feelings.

Worse, they couldn’t be reasoned with. They _knew_ how to organize their books, and they were not open to more practical methods.

He’d tried going to the rebel mages to see how they generally dealt with the tranquil only to learn that most of them had a tendency to simply pretend they didn’t exist.

Truly, the south was a baffling place.

He supposed he understood not wanting to face what could be done to oneself, but still…they were—had been mages. Did they no longer count as brethren?

He’d considered asking time and time again, yet somehow…it didn’t seem appropriate.

And while Grand Enchanter Fiona and a handful of other mages were grateful to him for the help that he and Felix had provided them, most of the mages were wary the second they heard his accent.

It was understandable, considering how they’d nearly become slaves to Tevinter mages, he supposed, though it was yet another moment where he was mostly annoyed without being able to explain why.

He knew he would be viewed as a villain down south. He’d been used to it in Orlais.

Yet it still stung when someone new eyed him with caution or stopped mid-sentence and hurried away.

Not that he’d let them see it. No need to give them proper gossip.

And anyway, he heard more interesting things eavesdropping while pretending to read than in any conversation.

For example, Lady Vivienne was searching for Cole along with a few other mages, though they’d been unsuccessful in finding him. Dorian half-suspected that the creature had left with Finley. It would have if it was smart, anyway.

The mages were divided on what to think of Finley, as were the templars. A few were calling for a phylactery to be made, ‘if’ she came back from Denerim.

As though she wouldn’t.

Add to that that Varric had left with his old friends to gather red lyrium or something completely foolish.

Without Finley, Dorian had little reason to associate with Solas or Vivienne or any of the others. Without Varric, he had little reason to lounge about the main hall.

Regardless of whether the dwarf was there or not, it had become an unspoken truth that the hearth was his and no one else’s.

Dorian had sat at the table once, without thinking, but the looks people had given him as they’d wandered past had made him most uncomfortable.

It was a damned table. A rickety, miserable one, at that. What did it matter if he sat there?

In the end, he’d left it because of how eerily empty it felt, rather than the annoying stares of those who thought he was trying to usurp the writer’s position.

He’d been eavesdropping in the library from his little corner that he’d managed to get the tranquil to leave alone—it was not a victory, considering all he had to do was take a few steps to see that the organization of the books was all wrong—for most of his evening, idly listening as mages debated the usefulness of having the inquisitor be a mage and whether things might actually change—it was the same droll topics as always just in different voices—when he’d decided to go elsewhere.

Big as Skyhold was, he had few places he could truly go. Mother Giselle frequented the gardens, and she was always giving him a critical eye, as though she expected him to abruptly start twirling his moustache and cackling maniacally as he recited prayers to the Old Gods.

He’d been tempted to do so on more than one occasion, just to see what she’d do, but thus far he’d behaved.

It did, however, leave the gardens somewhat off limits if he wanted time to relax. He avoided the undercroft most of the time, as the new arcanist was a bit too talkative, and it could be a mite exhausting trying to keep up with her train of thought.

Really, all that was left was the Herald’s Rest, and it wasn’t particularly enjoyable, either.

There were a few mages who would beckon him over to sit with them, but for the most part, he was drinking alone, and well, one could do that anywhere.

And yet, despite it all, he’d headed to the Herald’s Rest anyway.

Now, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was there. Even as he considered going off to his private chambers for the night, the bench creaked beside him, dipping so that he almost slid to his right.

Looking over, incredulous, he found the qunari mercenary Finley seemed to hold in high regard had taken a seat beside him. The hulking man was watching the crowd wax and wane in the main part of the bar, as though he didn’t realize he’d caught Dorian’s attention.

“Don’t you normally stay near the wall?”

“Sorry, this your table?”

With a snort, Dorian looked away from him, nursing his current drink. “Hardly.”

A silence settled over them, though Dorian couldn’t even remotely call it comfortable. At least not until he glanced over to see that The Iron Bull looked rather relaxed, reclining where he was as he people watched.

The tavern’s ambient light did wonders for the qunari’s biceps…

A thought that was fleeting at most as Dorian looked back out as well.

Dorian bristled when he heard The Iron Bull let out a low hum. When he glanced over at him, The Bull motioned out toward the far side of the tavern, to a mage who was tentatively talking to one of the soldiers—a templar, if his armor was any indication. “Bit of an odd pairing, wouldn’t you say? Want to wager how long it will last?”

It was such a casual thing to say, so…

It made no sense. Of all the people in Skyhold, he’d rather expected the qunari to be the least likely to come to him for idle conversation, considering their people’s history.

“What exactly is it you want?”

The Bull appraised him a moment, finally giving Dorian his full attention, and he couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by that. The Bull was huge and…

“Word is that there’s a bet that dwarf writer—Varric—is hosting.” Dorian stilled as the words sunk in, eyes widening slowly. “Something to do with whose luck will win out first? A certain templar’s or a certain ex-templar’s?”

Immediately, Dorian slid closer to The Bull, glaring up at him. “Who told you about that?”

“I have my sources.”

Dorian’s lips dipped into a pronounced frown as he glared up at the bastard. He should have figured out no one would be sidling up beside him to _talk_ to him…

“Well, as you said, _Varric_ is hosting the bet. So I hardly see why you’re talking to _me_ about that.”

The Bull’s grin said he was enjoying this conversation a little bit too much. “Well, you are in on it, aren’t you?”

“I see no reason to answer that.”

“My men and I were just wondering how we might get in on that, seeing as it seems like—considering how many people are getting interested—it might be a lucrative win. Half of us guess one way, the others guess the other. We split the profit regardless. We can’t lose.”

“You can’t just guess so generically,” Dorian snapped, though he instantly felt like an idiot, as The Bull’s grin widened. Sitting up a bit straighter, Dorian let his gaze wander from his current company, glancing around for anything he could feign interest in. “It’s a matter of who and _when_. And Varric is the one keeping track of all that, so again, no point in talking to me.”

“Let’s say I bet next week for the Lady Seeker and her beau. If nothing happens by then, can I change mine? Or would I have to place another bet?”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian hissed. “Do you listen?” When he found The Bull staring expectantly regardless, Dorian closed his eyes and took in a slow breath. There was no point in answering the man’s questions, considering he was just going to keep prying.

Instead of giving him what he wanted, Dorian shot to his feet, striding out of the tavern without much thought to where to go from there. As soon as he was out in the cool night air, however, he found that he wasn’t going to be afforded a moment to himself.

“You should read this.”

Dorian turned his head slowly to see that damned…what was he even? Spirit? Demon? Conjured minion?

So much for him being smart enough to leave with Finley.

“I have free will,” Cole assured Dorian, though that was hardly a comfort.

The spirit was holding out a folded piece of paper that had dark splotches upon it, which—when Dorian reached for it—he found to be blood.

Fresh blood.

For the second time in minutes, he was cursing in his native tongue. Glancing around for anyone who might be watching to damn the wicked Tevinter for associating with malevolent spirits carrying bloody messages, he gripped Cole by the arm and dragged him around the corner, into the shadows.

“What is this?”

“Important.”

Dorian reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, but stopped himself as he realized his thumb was still bloodied. With another quiet curse, he looked around for something to wipe his hand on. Finding nothing, he glared at the spirit. “If it’s important—”

“Solas doesn’t know all the words, and I just know the intent is…bad.” The spirit shuddered as though a cold wind had swept over them, and then held out the note again. “There’s no one else I could ask to help.”

Despite feeling like dragging the spirit all the way to wherever Solas slept to ask him to keep his pet in line—he _was_ the one declaring Cole safe, after all—Dorian’s gaze slid down toward the envelope. “If I read this will you go away?”

The spirit nodded quickly, and even in the dim light, Dorian could see the simple smile on the creature’s face.

Mouth a thin line, and brow pinched together, he held his hand out.

No sooner had the paper touched his hand, he was alone.

It was little consolation.

However, he was certain that creature would be back if he didn’t keep his end of the bargain, and so he slipped back toward the front of the building until he could see clear enough to read without needing to conjure anything himself.

Whatever he’d expected the letter to read, it hadn’t been this.

Dorian’s mind blanked, and then he blinked a few times, looking around, suddenly wishing the spirit hadn’t left him so quickly. Where had he gone?

“You…Cole?” he whispered the name, a hiss into the night.

When no boyish figure materialized in front of him to clarify things, his gaze snapped back to the letter.

It was written in Tevene.

Of course it was written in Tevene. Who in their right mind would bother to plot in any other tongue? Aside from Orlesian, perhaps.

_Hold plans in their fortress. With what we’ve got in the capital, it may not be necessary._

And that was it.

No signature, no specifics as to what capital or _anything_. Maker’s ass, they could have been talking about Minrathous or Val Royeaux or…

“What’s this?”

“That’s what I’d bloody well like to—” Dorian cut himself off as he realized who he was talking to and looked over his shoulder to see The Bull standing there, peering down at the letter in his hand.

The bloody letter in Dorian’s Tevinter hands, written in Tevene, that implied there was a plot afoot, likely against the Inquisiton.

“How’d you get that?” The Bull demanded, straightening up and crossing his arms. “I’ve been trying to get Krem to get in with those Tevinter spies for weeks, but he just gripes at me that he’s not one for subterfuge. I figured asking you would be pointless, but…” He cocked his head, appraising Dorian with new interest.

Dorian took in a slow breath, glancing from The Bull to the paper and back. “You…know this wasn’t me? That I’m not involved?”

“Yep.” Even as Dorian’s mind scrambled for the word ‘how’, The Bull grinned at him. “I have my sources.”

“They must be good sources; I’ll give you that.”

The Bull shrugged.

“Then…” Dorian hesitated as he eyed the qunari, wondering if asking questions would really be a good idea. “Do you know what this is about?”

“You don’t?”

“Clearly.”

Cracking his neck one way and then the other, The Bull motioned toward the paper. “The Venatori are looking for a way to bring down the Inquisition. There’s a few around Skyhold. The Spymaster and I are keeping an eye on them.”

Dorian let out a huff. “Even I could piece that much together.” He hit the paper with the back of his free hand. “This says something’s going on in a capital. Does this mean…” Perhaps it was the wine that made his mind register what had to be the most obvious answer a bit slower than he should have. “Finley and everyone are headed to…the Venatori must be planning something in Denerim.” His gaze snapped back up to The Bull. “We have to warn them.” He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to remember that ridiculous bird spell that Finley had shown him. It was conjugated atrociously, and he had yet to get it to work properly.

He started toward the main building, thinking to go up to the rookery, but stopped, abruptly turning back to The Bull, who still stood where he’d found Dorian. He paced back to the qunari, holding up the note. “Who here is working for the Venatori?”

“We don’t know all of them.”

“Vishan—” Cursing wasn’t going to fix this problem. A proper curse might, but not…

How could he send a message? What if the person he sent it through was Venatori or just working for Corypheus? What if the person who relayed the message or received the message was?

They had to warn Finley.

Maker’s balls, but _all_ the important members of the Inquisition were in that group. If something happened to them, there would _be_ no Inquisition.

“Where are you going?”

The Bull’s words were in his ear as he matched Dorian’s pace. “Someone’s got to warn them.”

“So you’re just going to…what?” The Bull peered ahead as they rushed down the stairs. “Saddle up a horse and ride off in the dead of night? _That_ won’t be suspicious.”

“To the Void with suspicions!” Dorian snapped, starting to turn on his harasser, but instead continuing toward the stables. “My reputation is already in shambles, what do I care if I have a few more wary looks cast my way when I get back?”

“Assuming you do get back.”

“Is there a reason you’re trying to talk me out of this?”

“No, no.” The Bull reached out and caught Dorian’s arm, stopping him in the middle of the lower courtyard. “By all means, go. But we’ll come with you. Anyone wanting to keep this quiet will think twice about coming after a mercenary company instead of just a lone man.”

“A lone Tevinter _mage_.”

“Altus.”

Whatever Dorian was about to say, it was forgotten with that clarification.

The Bull gave him a quick wink. “We’ll gather supplies and leave just before morning. It won’t tip anyone off if we all go together. We can say we’re going to clear some bandits off the roads.”

It made sense.

More so than running off alone in the dead of night, anyway.

Dorian glanced up at The Bull, frown in place. “How do I know you’re not a spy?”

The grin that immediately lit up The Bull’s face was…something.

“The Boss is discrete. I appreciate that.” Motioning to himself, The Bull leaned down. “I am a spy. Just not for Tevinter or Corypheus.”

 Dorian tried to wrap his head around that. “If you’re a spy, why would you—”

“Come on, now. Of all the things I need to worry about, a Tevinter _mage_ accusing me of being a Qunari spy is not one of them.”

Though Dorian opened his mouth to retort, the truth of it was clear enough. There was no way anyone would believe him if he accused their only qunari of being a spy for the Qun. Not when he was from the only country at war with them.

Grasping for some way to salvage his pride and out-maneuver The Bull, Dorian stood a bit straighter, motioning to him. “And how do I know the Qun doesn’t want the Inquisition dead in the water?”

“We like our world with a few less demons, too.”

As much as he would have liked to argue with The Bull until he could trip him up, it hardly seemed worth it, considering what needed to be done. Dorian held his head a bit higher as he nodded once. “Fine. We’ll do things your way.”

“Now, that’s something I like to hear.”

With that, The Bull clapped a hand down onto Dorian’s shoulder and then turned to head back to the inn. However, he’d barely made a few steps when he turned back, motioning for Dorian to come with us. “So then, about that bet…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Real life is still kicking my ass, so no clue on when I'll have a regular update schedule again, but I'm working on getting there.


	70. The Commander's Broken Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gets a little bit nsfw, but not really.

Since the night he’d held her at the edge of camp, Finley had been avoiding him. Cullen was sure of it.

Maker, Josephine had even suggested they talk. She’d said that Finley seemed even more on edge than usual and that Cullen seemed to have a way with her, but the way she said it had made Cullen worry that perhaps Finley had said something to her, and she was trying to resolve matters before Denerim.

There was tension between them, and he knew Josephine had to noticed it.  

He’d tried to tell himself that he was just overthinking things, but…

But everything was making him on edge.

Worse, he kept hearing people whispering about some damned bet. He’d asked Cassandra about it, but she’d simply shrugged and said she’d heard of one that was how long it’d take her to kill Varric, so she wasn’t really interested in knowing what the newest one might be.

With the pace they’d set for Denerim, there wasn’t a lot for him to do, other than ride and think things over. And his mind was merciless. It replayed his most recent interactions with Finley, thinking about the way she might reach for him, then pull away, as though she were troubled by something. The way she twisted under his gaze, like she was…afraid.

Of what?

Him?

He would never hurt her…

He almost wished Alistair was there, if only to give him a distraction. The man had spent his childhood screaming in Chantries, so Cullen didn’t doubt he’d be good for a laugh or even an argument. At this point, he would have taken listening to a victory speech about how ‘witches’ had to be real.

Unfortunately, Alistair had stayed back at Skyhold. When Finley had asked Alistair if he was coming with them—stars in her eyes and hope in her voice—he’d said no.

Well, there had been snorting, extreme exaggeration, and even a short giggle from Finley despite herself.

The famed grey warden was certainly good at drawing a smile from their Inquisitor…

But no, Alistair was going to wait for Hawke to get back, as Hawke had sent word that they’d found something important. Considering how he’d marked all of his letters to Skyhold as important, telling them that they needed to allocate resources they didn’t have to help people who wouldn’t let them in their country, Cullen wasn’t sure how serious to take the latest message. However, Alistair had been firm in staying behind.  

Cullen was fairly certain Finley wanted to toss Hawke off a cliff for claiming the warden’s attentions, but Cullen hadn’t been able to mind that part so much. The man could trip into a room, and Finley was giddy and girlishly adorable.

She never did that with him…

He supposed he ought not to be jealous, considering she was _sleeping_ with him, not Alistair, and yet he could not keep his scowls at bay. And a relationship between the Inquisitor and a warden outside of the Inquisition wouldn’t cause the same sort of stir as her finding comfort in her commander’s chambers…

Maker, help him.

Even with Finley’s adoration for every warden she met—at least it seemed so—he still wished Alistair was around, if only to distract him from the facts that Finley was avoiding him and that he had no desire to meet with King Cousland.

Maker, don’t let that man remember him. Please, please, please…

He’d been a no one back then, a pitiful wretch, mad from the horrors he’d seen, when Warden Commander Brosca had led her group in to save the day. It had been bad enough that Alistair had seen him that way, but he’d never thought of the strangers.

That he worked with Leliana now was a certain level of misery, as he still expected her to bring up Kinloch Hold at some point, though she never did. He was glad of her silence.

Perhaps, even if the king _did_ recognize him as the raving madman from the tower, he would keep quiet about it.

It was a hollow hope.

King Cousland had been one of the more vocal members of the group who had saved the Circle. At the time, Cullen had thought the noble a blessing, a voice of reason that should have given credibility to his own demands.

He could still taste that bitterness in his mouth from when Knight-Commander Greagoir had refused to kill the remaining mages, not seeing them for the dangers he was certain they posed. With all that had happened, all those who had pretended to be a decent sort only to turn into murderous abominations, how anyone had been able to argue with him had been madness in his mind at the time.

Cousland had agreed. Better to cut them down now than to have them take out the remaining templars and make sure that the Wardens’ treaty could not be fulfilled.  

Warden Brosca had been ready to toss both Cullen and Cousland into the lake, hissing that she’d like to see them swim in their armor. She’d had more choice words, though they’d been directed at Cousland rather than Cullen, and all he’d known was that Alistair and the others with them had managed to calm things down.

In the end, they’d gone on to save the world, and he’d gone to Greenfell to ‘recover’. As though all he’d been through was something that could be gotten over with a bit of fresh air.

Granted, after the first month, he’d thought that…

He’d been a fool, a young, traumatized fool, who’d sought comfort in the first arms that would take him.

Ellendra.

He’d needed someone, anyone to keep him grounded in reality, and Ellendra had offered him her hand and her bed. He’d been desperate to learn and please, to do anything that distracted him from his memories, anything that kept him awake long enough that he was too tired to have the nightmares that haunted him.

He hadn’t loved her, but at the time he thought he had. She’d been his first, and he’d felt that with her he could build some semblance of a life, something constant, something different. He’d even mulled over leaving the Order a night or two, though he hadn’t known what he’d possibly do with his life if he wasn’t a templar.

And then that had fallen through as easily as it had started, and he’d requested transfer, again wanting to be anywhere but where he was.

Knight-Commander Greagoir had suggested he not head off so quickly, that he take the time to allow himself to get better—that he would fight for the Order to allow Cullen that. He came by a few times—when he could spare—to check up on Cullen, though he’d seen the old man’s visits through a haze of betrayal, after the lenience at the hold. The knight-commander had tried again and again to talk to Cullen about what had happened, to encourage him to work through his problems.

But he couldn’t.

And he couldn’t stay in Greenfell. To know he was just one in a long line of Ellendra’s lovers, to know that he’d meant as much to her as he had to the demons that had toyed with him…

He’d needed to be anywhere else.

And so even though Kirkwall was the largest Circle in Thedas, he’d gone there when he’d heard of an opening, hoping to recover some part of himself that he’d lost by throwing himself back into the dream he’d had ever since he was a child.

He would be a protector, someone who would keep the innocent safe from monsters.

Before he’d thought that meant keeping regular people safe from abominations, and keeping mages safe from mobs.

After the madness at Kinloch Hold, though…

His concept of monster was already blurry when Meredith had gotten ahold of him, and she’d done nothing but make sure that the lines were redrawn in all the wrong places, the places he feared they should be.

She had been so confident, so firm, that he’d trusted her. She’d been the strict, stern leader that he’d wanted Greagoir to be. She didn’t give the mages chances to fall to temptation, she _protected_ people.

Or so he’d thought at the time.

Because of that, he’d been her most loyal templar, one of the many reasons that he was promoted so quickly to her second in command.

There were rumors that he was Meredith’s plaything, though it held no merit. Their relationship was strictly professional, and he’d figured that any relations with mages or other templars would lead to nothing but heartbreak or manipulation.

Linda had been a poor waif in Lowtown who somehow always managed to be around and in need of saving. While he’d initially looked into her, suspecting her of _helping_ blood mages seeing as she was always somehow involved with them, it ended up that she was there for him. She fancied him and risked most anything for a moment or two to talk.

After a particularly bad night, he’d fallen into her arms much as he had with Ellendra, just wanting a distraction from everything that was wrong with his life.

She’d been kinder, gentler, and yet he’d never been able to coax his heart into their affair.

They’d carried on for a few years, until one day she came up and told him that she was getting married.

Cullen had been surprised that that hadn’t hurt him like he would have expected it to, but he’d figured that that was what his life was. A series of short reprieves from the usual misery of the horrors that lay just beneath the surface, that haunted his nights.

After that, he’d limited himself to The Blooming Rose when he absolutely couldn’t stand the loneliness that smothered him.

It had been well enough, good enough for someone like him.

Though, as he’d realized what was going on in the Gallows—what he was letting happen—he’d turned away from even that.

Meredith had not been amused when his gaze had turned inward toward the templars, when he’d started listening to Ser Thrask and First Enchanter Orsino.

She’d been even less thrilled when he’d brought several templars to the Grand Cleric’s attention for their crimes against mages after Meredith dismissed him.

It was like he’d made a declaration of war against his superior, and even as he feared lines would be drawn within the templars, he learned that they were already there, and that he’d been on the side of the real monsters.

Maker, he’d been _one_ of them.

Suddenly, he’d found himself having to make sure Ser Thrask or one of the mage-sympathetic templars were out hunting down apostates with him, or he’d find himself getting shouldered into boulders or shield bashed in the face as a fellow templar ‘mistook’ him for a mage in the heat of battle.

All accidents, of course.

And while it was a monster coordinating these things, he couldn’t help the slithering, twisted self-loathing that curled inside him, whispering that he deserved at least this much.

He deserved to be hurt, to be lonely, to suffer as those he’d neglected had suffered.

When he’d left the Order to join the Inquisition, he’d hoped he could find a way to atone, to…not to make up for what he’d done. That could never happen. But he’d wanted to try to be the man he’d dreamed of being when he was boy.

A protector.

He’d never even considered he might find someone…let alone a mage who held the key to saving the world. That someone like Finley could even consider him…

He’d given up on romance long before he realized he didn’t deserve it, and yet here he was, jealous of a hero because of the way the woman he loved seemed drawn to him.

His mind stopped at that, for some reason, slowly playing back his most recent string of thoughts.

Cullen nearly fell off his horse as what he’d thought processed. Snapping up and alert, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his near accident, though no one seemed to be paying him particular mind.

He ran his fingers through his hair, staring ahead, heat creeping up into his cheeks.

Maker, he loved her.

He loved Finley.

How?

How could he love her already?

Even as he wondered, all he could do was think of the way she spoke, of the quiet, hesitant smiles she gave him, of the way she came to him before anyone else, the way…

Maker, help him.

He wanted to offer her a ride on his horse, just to feel her body against his. Theirs was a slow enough pace that they could have talked off and on.

Talked and touched and…

And she was avoiding him.

Had she figured out before he had and been scared off? This was…it was far too soon. Love was something that took time and…

And he needed to see her.

When they’d camped for the night, he made sure the guards were posted and then searched for Finley, only to find that she was being as elusive as usual, though Leliana had assured him he needn’t worry and so he’d figured the spymaster had eyes on her wherever she was. Despite wanting to keep looking for her, he’d given in, his body weary from the days on the road, and headed to his tent.

However, when he reached it, he found a small paper tied to his tent flap’s tie. He unraveled it, a mite bit annoyed, especially seeing as the delivery reminded him of Sera, and she was supposed to be back at Skyhold.

He scanned the letter carefully and then sighed. The misspellings screamed that Sera had stowed away with them. While he didn’t care so long as she didn’t cause any mayhem, he knew that Josephine would be concerned if she found out.

Perhaps he’d forget to bring it up.

The note, however, said that he’d find something important at the stream just south of where they were camped, and so he headed off, even as he wanted to do nothing more than crawl into his tent and pretend to sleep as his mind played through every interaction he’d ever had with Finley and why she might be mad at him at present.

When he reached the stream, he found another note tied to a branch—almost hidden—that pointed him to the right.

As he wondered if he should have his blade drawn, he wandered along the brush, watching the water flow past, quick enough that it was clear and crisp. The underbrush and foliage were dense enough that—while it could hide someone easily—he doubted anyone could move through it easily to prepare a sneak attack, so clearly the notes hadn’t been alerting him to a possible weak point near the camp.

If this was some simple diversion tactic…

He forgot about sneak attacks and pranks the second he heard a surprised gasp and looked up to see Finley. She was sitting on a large rock beside the water, washing her long hair.

It was one of the first times he’d seen it nearly tangle free, and his breath caught in his throat as he watched her, imagining for a second it was his fingers in her hair.

“Commander.” Her voice was hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. He was surprised by how much that caution hurt.

“Finley.”

At her name, that small, quiet smile he so loved whispered across her lips. It was gone too soon. “Has…something happened?”

That was what he wanted to know.

“Someone left me a note that I should come out here.”

“Oh…” He could see the gears turn quickly in Finley’s head as she assigned blame to the appropriate parties. So she knew Sera was here.

Wonderful.

She’d shed most of her clothes to keep them from getting wet as she fought with her hair, and the way her under shirt clung to her made him want to take her in his arms and cast it aside with everything else. To feel her heart beating with his, to…

“You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

“I’m used to being alone,” she retorted, shrugging and turning back to her original task.

Cullen stepped up beside the rock she was seated upon, watching her muscles in her bare arms move beneath her skin a few minutes before he managed to gather his thoughts.

“You could be hurt.”

“I’m used to getting hurt.”

Cullen flinched at that. A thousand responses flitted through his mind. He was sorry, even though he’d never hurt her himself. He wished she wasn’t used to it. He wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be ever again.

There were so many things he wanted to say, and instead, he stood there, close enough that he could reach out and cup her face in his hands, and yet feeling like he couldn’t.

“Finley.” Before he’d realized it, he’d knelt in front of her, peering up into her face, searching her expression. He wanted to ask what had happened between them. He’d found her in the woods early on when they’d started traveling, and she’d been crying, and she’d… He’d held her for a little while before taking her back to her tent.

The next morning, there had been a change, though, and he wasn’t sure what had caused it.

“Cullen.”

Her voice was soft, but the sound of his name on her lips sent a shiver through him.  

“I just…” she trailed off, letting her hair fall against her back and shaking her head. “I miss the Wilds. It’s a lot easier when you know what to expect and what will likely happen and…here…nothing makes sense.”

Without thinking, he finally breeched that impossible distance between them, fingers gently brushing across her jaw and cheeks. He just wanted to do something, anything that would help her. “You’re not alone with that. Everything’s a bit of a mess right now.”

Finley leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as she brought her hand up to hold his. Even as she pressed a kiss into his palm, she straightened up, worried. “Am I…should we even…” He leaned toward her as she struggled to find her words. “I don’t really get how to do this. With you. Everything is so complicated.”

Cullen blinked, staring up at her, at the earnest worry settling on her features.

She looked away from him, wincing as she started to say something, and he couldn’t help himself anymore.

Leaning forward, he caught her lips with his, moving his hand back to the nape of her neck, as he moved his lips, seeking to memorize hers.

There was a second’s hesitation that almost made him stop, before her fingers were in his hair, tugging him closer.

He moved with her, surging up and pushing her down onto the rock, his knee propping himself up slightly over her as their hands wandered over each other, desperately seeking bare skin. One of her legs slid up along his to wrap around his waist, though Finley stopped short, pulling away a little.

As she caught her breath and he fought the urge to simply kiss her again, she bit her lip. “Cullen…your sword is pressing into my leg.”

“That’s not my sword.”

“What I’m talking about is.”

With a glance, he saw the problem—obvious thing that it was—and felt like an idiot. Of course he was still wearing his sword on his hip. Even as he cursed how in the way it was, hand reaching to his belt he stopped himself.

Something had cracked in the woods. A stick.

Cullen held his breath, waiting to see what would come of it. Finley was the one to dismiss it. “It was just an animal.”

When he looked back at her, however, he couldn’t shake the fact that someone could have snuck up on them, and they would have been caught off guard.

Maker, he was supposed to be protecting her, not putting her in more danger.

She seemed to be on the same page, already sitting up and running her fingers through her hair to make sure it was still clean.

“I’ll…stay with you until you’re ready to go back.” The words were forced, and he was half afraid to meet her gaze, that he might lose himself in thoughts of touching her again.  

She simply nodded, reached out, and squeezed his hand. Then she was back to finishing up with the last few tangles in her hair. Cullen watched her, trying to keep his attention on their surroundings as well, though he had a hard time with that when they were so close.

Turning his back to her, he walked away a few paces, trying to think of something to calm the fire in his blood. Abruptly, he straightened up and looked back at her. “You were going to say something.”

“Hmm?” Finley braided her hair quickly and turned back to her clothes.

“When I kissed you. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just…” He wasn’t sure what to say that would excuse his actions, but he didn’t want her to think he would just kiss her to get her to stop talking or…

She hesitated at that, fingers gripping her shirt with more force than necessary as she stared blankly at the fabric.

“It wasn’t anything important.” She tugged it over her head and then gave him a hesitant smile. “Just a silly fear.”

That gave him pause.

That she’d been willing to open up to him made him want to press the matter, and yet…

Cullen could understand not wanting to talk about things well enough, and so he nodded, reaching out and lightly catching her hand. “Alright.” A light blush settled on her cheeks when he squeezed her hand, and he motioned back toward the camp. “We should get some sleep.”

As he let go of her, she drew in a slow breath, nodding before she exhaled. “We reach Denerim tomorrow, yes?”

“We do.”

“We…we’re not going to be there more than a few days.”

Cullen gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll be heading back to Skyhold by the end of the week.”

As he gave her that assurance, she let out another slow breath, tilting her head back and staring up into the branches overhead as they wandered back. “I’ll be glad to have this past us.”

“As will we all.”

And for the first time that night, she gave him a more genuine smile, stretching up on her toes to kiss his cheek before winding her way back through the trees to camp with the soft, quiet ease that made him wonder if he hadn’t been wrong in assuming it would be hard to have a sneak attack in this area.

He’d order a few more guards before he went to bed.

He’d messed up so many times before, but this time he would act as the protector he’d sworn he would be.

He would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! There was gonna be another scene to this chapter, but I felt like this was a really good ending point.


	71. The King and Inquisitor

Cullen was a good sort, but damn if his timing wasn’t terrible.

Or, more accurately, still eerily like a templar’s.

Of all the things Finley’s demon had told her, the one that bothered her the most was that King Cousland supposedly had something on her linking her to her parents or…perhaps their killing spree or the demon itself or…

Something that would not paint her in a good light, and she was well acquainted with what happened to mages who were painted thus.

Tranquility or death, and seeing as her left hand was rather important, tranquility seemed more likely.

There were rumors already of templars who wished to make her tranquil. The mark had its own magic, and so how could it be hurt if only _hers_ was cut off? That was their reasoning.

So long as she was a timid healer, they would gain no purchase, but should it come out about her childhood…

Even Cullen wouldn’t be able to save her.

He would try, wouldn’t he?

After all, he might still have the instincts of a hunter—as he so aptly displayed over and over—but he hadn’t the heart of one. There was caution, unease, but no drive to extinguish.

She was fairly sure of that.

If he _did_ try to keep her safe, he would just end up a fatality when the odds proved too great against them.

And if he didn’t…

Even if there was some semblance of truth to what the demon had said about him not trusting mages—he _was_ wary of magic—in all the time she’d known him, he was nothing but kind and gentle and…

And so, what she had really worried about after the demon’s conversation was whatever might be in King Cousland’s hands. It might be nothing, it might be something that noted that her mother was an abomination or that she’d been dragged around by blood mages for years, a quiet witness to their crimes.

It might say that her blood had been used in their rituals.

She’d yet to come into her magic at the time, but that would hardly matter to templars and those who feared mages.

Truly, whatever the king had would be a bigger problem to deal with, especially now that she was the center of attention. Who would trust her if word got out that a demon thought itself her mother? People would insist she was practicing forbidden magics or…

Everything was such a mess.

She’d avoided Cullen.

She didn’t know how to tell him, if she should tell him. If word got out before she could be the one to reveal it, it would damage her credibility and people’s trust in her, but if she could take care of things so that it _never_ got out, there would be no need to bring it up. Ever.

It had eaten at her.

As much as she hadn’t wanted to look into it, solely because a demon had told her of it, it had gotten too deeply under her skin, and so she’d sent word to Donovan. He knew the most of her history of anyone, and if she was going to have someone help her, it was going to be someone who wouldn’t have their jaw hit the floor the second they learned anything. He’d likely pieced together most of what he didn’t outright know, anyway, so most of it wouldn’t be too surprising.

So she’d sent for him, and his response had been surprisingly swift. She wasn’t sure how he’d been so close to the capital, but she supposed the Bracillian Forest was a place he liked to visit on occasion, so it wasn’t too odd.

And where he wandered in his free time was hardly her business, unless he required help.

He’d gotten word to her, and she’d gone off to meet him. When she’d found another message saying he was running a tad late because of rather brutish templars, she’d taken to washing her hair, if only to keep herself from going to search for him.

After all, she couldn’t leave the Inquisition. They’d have a manhunt for her, and would keep her much closer to the heart of their little party, if she did. She’d lose what few freedoms she had left.

And then, as she waited, Cullen had arrived.

She didn’t know if she believed in the Maker, but he was an odd sort, if he was real.

Or maybe he was kind.

Sending her Cullen as a gentle reminder that she wasn’t alone.

Silly as it was, just being around him made her feel safe, and more than that, when he’d come to her, he’d looked so…lost.

She didn’t want him to look at her like that, like he was abandoned or forgotten.

When he’d knelt there, asking her what was wrong, so sincere and sweet, she’d fumbled for how to explain. How to put into words her past, her fears? How to tell him things she’d never told anyone?

She’d tried, frustrated to find that nothing came to mind seemed to really express what she was trying to say. She adored him, and yet, she knew that there were boundaries that had to be kept in place because of their positions, and that along with everything else just made everything so damned complicated.

One way to uncomplicate things would be to just talk to him, of course.

It was a horrifying notion. How many times had people turned away from her or simply on her for her past dealings? She didn’t want him to be one of them.

But he needed to know.

If no one else, she wanted to tell _him_ , if only to see if he’d still look at her the same way.

The words had stuck in her throat, even as she tried to force them, about the demon, its warning to her, its words of him, and how there might be something threatening the Inquisition and Finley in Denerim.

And then he’d kissed her, and it had all slipped away, unimportant details in a moment that was so perfect. A moment demons and monsters couldn’t reach.

Then, just as she’d finally found a reprieve from all the tumultuous thoughts tumbling in her head, Donovan had shown up.

He’d just _had_ to remind her that there were things _other_ than her commander that needed to be done.

She hadn’t even needed to see him to know he was displeased with how she’d chosen to pass the time waiting for him. He’d stepped on a damned twig to catch Cullen’s attention, and then the mood had been killed, because she’d known damned well that he wouldn’t go away and let them finish.

He’d dared the camp, meeting her in her tent after Cullen had wished her a good night, a chide instantly falling off his lips about how careless she was being.

She had to agree with that.

The fact that she’d even considered telling Cullen about her demon was baffling. He might not be a templar anymore, but she doubted he’d want to know she had a very specific demon whispering to her and keeping tabs on _him_. That it had followed her for years. That it was the reason for her eyes and not some Maker-sent miracle.  

Her fingers brushed over her forearms, an action she’d developed after healing away the scars her parents had left her. That smooth skin had been a reminder that the past could be left behind, where it belonged.

As she adjusted her seat on the damnable horse she was seated atop, her fingers brushed against the scar the red lyrium had left behind, and she flinched.

She’d poured more magic than she should have into trying to heal it, but it was still a horrible dark red streak.

It felt a little like a warning, that maybe the past couldn’t be buried after all, that something would always resurface.

Tugging her sleeve down, she glanced around the street, trying not to feel claustrophobic.

They’d said that Val Royeaux was bigger than Denerim, that compared to other capitals, Ferelden’s was relatively small.

It didn’t feel small.

The buildings were packed so tightly together that their walls touched, and they stretched up awkwardly, like strange stacks of old, neglected wood. It was an entire forest razed and then propped up in an awful mockery of what it had been.

The roofs made the sky hard to see, and there was…smoke. It crowded out the blue that should have been overhead, and made it harder to breathe. Well, that and the smell of too many people too close together.

And the people themselves, they were everywhere, like a swarm of ants crawling over everything.

Big, judgmental ants who didn’t seem pleased that the Inquisition had come into their city.

She tried not to look at the crowds, instead thinking about how Donovan and Sera were both out there somewhere. Sera was meeting with other Red Jennies to gather information, and Donovan was headed toward the castle to scry for what the king might have and find a way to get to it.

It probably took a few hours to wind their way through those awful, narrow streets and to the castle, but it felt like it took so much longer.

Despite trying not to watch the crowds, Finley’s eyes were drawn to them anyway. Her gaze was met with fear and awe and disgust.

Some saw a religious blessing, others a mage grasping for power.

How she wished they could have come in a little group, cloaked in the dark of night, with no one but unreliable witnesses there to see them.

This procession was doing nothing for them, she was sure.

Nevertheless, she held her head high and somehow managed not to hunch her shoulders or forget to breathe.

As they finally passed through the castle gates and dismounted, she heard a pronounced sigh and looked to her side to see Ser Yorric had already dismounted and stood beside her. Even as she glanced around for Cullen and her other advisors, he let out a low whistle. “The Doglords aren’t the friendliest lot, are they?”

“Yorric!” Ser Jensen’s hiss came from her other side, and even as he sported an apologetic look and said something, Finley couldn’t help but feel how surrounded she was by templars.

Even with Josephine’s desperate plea that Finley not scale anything while she was there, she couldn’t help but glance around for ways to higher ground. There were plenty—sills to be hoisted up on, worn bits in walls that could be climbed, trees and the like dotted the area, too, likely in some unnecessary pattern that the people here found appealing.

She couldn’t see it, but she’d already learned that everyone in the Lowlands felt it necessary to bend nature to their own preferences. They couldn’t bear it free as it ought to be.

“I’m sure things will go better once we’ve been able to talk to the King and Queen,” Ser Jensen offered with a quick nod.

Generally, it was hard for Finley to tell when templars were being honest rather than just trying to lull her into a false sense of security so that someone could stab her, but she nodded back at Ser Jensen, figuring she would stay alert regardless. If he turned on her, she would have the upper hand by expecting it.

Before she could offer some platitude in response, they were being ushered up to the castle. It was larger than Skyhold, the building far better kept, and—even surrounded by guards as she was—she felt so vulnerable walking up the steps.

As she reached the top, Cullen and Cassandra flanked her on one side, and Josephine and Leliana on the other. ‘Her’ templars were just behind her, and she could feel each time one of their gazes passed over her, or focused upon her. It made her want to press her back to a wall, though there were  none close enough, and she doubted anyone would appreciate her sprinting to one.

There was a single moment where the world seemed to stand still, where she looked over all the foreign faces of the assembled party waiting to greet them, searching for signs of how this meeting would go. It was a moment where anything seemed possible, even turning their entire procession around and going back to Skyhold, to continue their work without all this political nonsense.

In a breath, the moment was over.

A regal woman with blonde hair wound up in an intricate style offered them a kind, political smile and a nod, and suddenly introductions were flying, and people were talking, and Finley was very sure important things were going on, but she couldn’t keep up.  

Every time a question was asked, someone else spoke up, offering assurances and all the right words that she would have never thought to say.

Smooth as they were, she was fairly certain she was supposed to do some of the talking, and fretted that her silence might be interpreted a million different ways.

She tried not to fidget.  Tried not to edge back a step, to ease out of the center of the group and just run.

However, even as she fought to keep her calm, it occurred to her that there was a person missing from their midst.

She peered around, puzzled as she recalled names and put them to faces, inspecting clothing and signs of stature, trying to piece together who exactly was there.

“Inquisitor?” The blonde woman, Queen Anora, spoke so eloquently, her posture perfect as that single word brought all the other talking to an immediate stop. “You seem worried.”

“No,” Finley exhaled, struggling not to flinch at how quickly her reply had come. Her mind was hissing at her that no one liked an anxious mage. “I…It’s an honor to meet you, your majesty, but I had thought we were meeting with both you and your king.”

“I am sorry to say His Majesty, my husband, is entangled in some last-minute dealings, and will be unable to speak with you until later this evening.” Her smile wavered just long enough to show sympathy before it was back again as she turned and motioned toward the building. “Come, I will have you seen to your quarters so that you may freshen up before the meeting.”

Finley’s ‘thank you’ was lost to the voices that resumed their conversations as they began to file into the building in what felt somewhat like a death sentence.

…-…

Her day had not gotten much better.

Once in their quarters, Finley had been subjected to a bath in water that was entirely too warm and then the…helpers had set in.

Had she not fixed her hair up the night before?

It didn’t matter to them as they attacked her with combs and the dresses that Josephine had ordered for her. She noticed the one she’d hemmed was decidedly missing. It was one of the better jobs she’d done, and she found herself taking offense to its absence—after all, anyone who spent their time paying close attention to others’ hems had little in the way of a life.

They undid her hair just to redo it the exact way it’d been put up that morning, and Finley wanted to throw things at the lot of them.

Or to ask Cullen to throw things with her.

He, however, didn’t make an appearance until well after her tormentors had stepped away—some a bit more hastily than others as she eyed them. Without regard to what people might think, she’d made a point to sit as close to him as she could as her advisors discussed what had happened. Most of the reports were quick, with simple statements about security and safety.

And then Josephine had taken the floor.

Finley hadn’t known a conversation could be analyzed so completely.

Every breath she’d taken had apparently spoken volumes to everyone they’d met, and there was some damage done, though it was ‘manageable’ if they played things smart.

Her question about the king had made it seem like she didn’t value the queen’s presence, so she would have to be sure to show extra enthusiasm toward Queen Anora and the other nobles who had met her. Her silence could have been interpreted to mean she didn’t trust the Ferelden Court, that she was plotting, or that she was unsure of herself, and it would take some effort on everyone’s part to redirect that to show that none of those assumptions were true.

Finley had progressively leaned closer and closer to Cullen as the conversation and preparation for the later meeting dragged on. It wasn’t until her shoulder bumped his, however, that she noticed. Jumping, she nearly bolted from the room before realizing it was just Cullen beside her.

He reached out and squeezed one of her hands gently, and she held on to him for dear life as Josephine took in a slow breath through her nose. The scraping of chair legs drew her attention away from Cullen’s gentle, worried expression to see that Josephine had dragged her chair closer to Finley.

“Listen to me, be honest about your intentions.”

“Why would I lie?” Finley muttered, pulling Cullen’s hand into her lap so that she could clasp it with both hands. “They’re good intentions.”

“Yes,” Josephine hesitated, leaning against her knees a moment before straightening up.

“You have a tendency to deflect, inquisitor,” Leliana spoke softly, sauntering over and leaning against Josephine’s chair.

“It can be useful in certain situations, no doubt, but it is obvious that something is being hidden when you do that,” Josephine explained. “For you, it may be that you do not wish a friend’s home to be found, but to them, it will likely come across as more ominous.”

“I am well aware of how quickly people think the worst of mages,” Finley muttered before she could stop herself.

Cullen tensed at that, but even as she turned to him questioningly, Josephine reached out and put a hand on top of theirs. “Finley. It is not fair that they will judge you so harshly, but I know you are a good sort. And you can make them see that. Just…try not to be…so…”

“Obstinate and argumentative?” When Cullen and Leliana both let out half laughs at that, Finley nodded slowly. “I will try to be friendly. And to remember titles.”

After that, things seemed to be set into motion again. Everyone was called speak with those who worked under them, and even though not all of them left the room, Finley still felt surprisingly alone. As she sat there, wishing Cullen hadn’t left the seat beside her, Ser Jensen abruptly slipped into the chair beside her and leaned toward her with a familiarity that elicited a frown despite herself.

“Have you checked the view from the windows of your chambers yet, inquisitor?”

“What?”

The templar made a motion with his head and Finley’s gaze followed toward the door that led to the back room of her chambers—that they had all these rooms to give to single people was bizarre and lavishly unnecessary—and then back at him.

“The gardens are lovely.” When she only narrowed her eyes further, he rolled his eyes and leaned closer. “Just take a moment for yourself, would you?”

Despite not understanding what he was on about, Finley got up and wandered back to her chambers, giving a hesitant smile to a few maids who were waiting to be of use. When she was in the room, she found the muffled noises from outside to be somewhat soothing and unnerving at once. She was glad to have the space, and yet she couldn’t help but feel vulnerable.

However, even as she debated whether or not she ought to go back out, a head popped up in one of the windows, and then Sera was climbing in. “Friggin’ took you long enough. Sent word to one of your templars to help out. Was starting to think he was a useless sort.”

“He just came to me,” Finley murmured, abruptly considering Ser Jensen in a new light. If he was willing to help Sera…

“Look, there’s word that something strange is going on at the castle, yeah? But I can’t get heads or tails of what. There’s talk of ghosts and magic and witches and…whole lot of it don’t add up to nothing in particular, but it’s off, so I thought you should know. Might just be jitters that a mage is about, might be nothing.”

Finley’s mind went to Donovan. “A mage?”

“Y’know, you?”

“Right…” Finley glanced down at the dormant mark, taking in a slow breath as she abruptly wondered how safe Donovan was out here.

“Saw some weird stuff drawn on some of the walls, too. Got magic in it, but it’s not like what I’ve seen you cast or nothing.” Sera pointed over her shoulder. “Wanna see?”

As she started out the window, Finley followed her, but stopped when one knee was on the sill. “The meeting is pretty soon. If I go missing…assuming nothing else kills me, Josephine will.”

“Ah, yeah. That’s true, innit?” Sera frowned, leaning against the window from the outside before glancing around and climbing back in. “Don’t look especially like you _wanna_ go.”

Finley tried to run her fingers through her hair, only to scowl as her pinky caught on one of the braids that had been used to keep up her bangs. She swore quietly as she freed her finger, pulling loose a lock of hair with it. “Everything I say is apparently _so_ important. Everything I _don’t_ say just as much. Everything is so…”

“Piss on that,” Sera scoffed, leaning against the wall beside the window. “They’re just people, much as they don’t want to admit it. Treat ‘em like you would anybody else, yeah?”

“That’s exactly what Josephine’s been telling me not to do.”

“Well, she’s on about how you get snippity with strangers and templars asking too many questions, I think,” Sera shrugged, mulling it over and letting her gaze wander idly around the room. She made a few faces as she noted various statues near the walls and corners. “How’s this then, words come easy enough, right? You’ve probably got a collection of ears somewhere that you’ve talked off and all that. _That’s_ what she doesn’t want you to do. So talk it out like I’m there. When _they’re_ wrong, pretend _I’m_ wrong. ‘Cause I listen, yeah? Plenty of shite I don’t know about, but you make it make sense. Like them weird leaf birds of yours. You explain it right, it makes sense, I’m not wrong anymore. Then, if those oh-so-important-nobles _stay_ wrong, _you_ know they aren’t a friend and to be careful. Ignore them or find a way to make Josie deal with them. _You_ focus on the people who go right.”

Finley slumped against a desk near where Sera was leaning, considering it. What Sera said made sense. “I’m not used to presuming people to be friendly.”

“All the better. The nobles think they’ve got you figured out, so they won’t know what to do. They get lost, you see the snakes better.”

There was a knock at the door. “Inquisitor?”

Finley nearly missed Sera as the elf hopped to the window to make a quick get away. “Sera, wait!” When her friend paused, she reached out and plucked a leaf from near the window, cupping it carefully and then holding it out as a gold glow seeped into the leaf, making it a shade lighter. “I have a friend on the grounds. This should help you find him or him find you. Show him those spells written?”

Sera took the leaf carefully between thumb and index finger, appraising it with a frown. “I need to do anything special with it?”

“No, just…let it guide you.”

“Inquisitor?” It was Leliana’s voice.

She straightened up from where she was leaning at the window as Sera disappeared into the gardens, turning just in time to see Leliana standing there. “It’s time.”

What happened next felt like it dragged on for eternity, and Finley found herself wishing dearly for one of those fade outs that happened in some of the stories Ser Caudry had written for her, to have the time lapse and just be done with it, to the outcome, whatever it might be.

However, considering that another blackout like that would likely mean that a demon had claimed more of her memories, she supposed it was well enough that she was so miserably aware of every step down the hall to the private chambers where the nobility discussed…whatever it was they discussed. Laws and how to cut their shrubs, most likely.

Of the Inquisition, only Finley, her four advisors, Ser Yorric, Ser Jensen, and Ser Barris entered the large chamber. There were no windows and the rafters overhead would be miserable to reach—especially in a dress.

For the first time, Finley chose to simply hope an escape would not be necessary rather than trying to find which wall would give her the best footing up.

Bann Barris was already waiting for them along with a Bann Raeor. The two of them were the most vocal of the Ferelden court to support the Inquisition, though they assured them that many others thought well of what they were doing as well.

They talked about who would need to be swayed and what would need to be promised, and Finley did her best to keep track, feeling a bit of relief when Josephine whispered that making those promises could be directed to her.

As more of the Ferelden nobility filtered in, people began to take seats and Finley followed the rest of them to a seat that had been set up across the table from where the largest chairs were. She could guess who would be in those.

However, they had yet to arrive, and instead she sat there, looking about cautiously as she mulled over the things Sera had said.

As Leliana discussed with a bann about how they wished to close the rifts, but there were some they were hesitant to go to, as they did not want to be seen as a military force trespassing on Ferelden soil. The woman hardly seemed pleased with the assurances.

Finley was just wondering if Leliana’s accent would make more of the nobility on edge when a tap came from the table near her and she turned to see a man had taken a seat next to where the queen would be sitting. Bann Barris sat beside him, and she guessed he must be Bann Raeor.

“You know, you closed a great many rifts in my land,” he offered, with a polite, reassuring smile. “I cannot tell you how pleased I was with that. We were afraid we’d have to give up on crop harvests this year, with so many rifts near the King’s Road.”

The woman who had been talking to Leliana turned away from her conversation and let out a nasal laugh. “Ah, yes. _That_ was the problem.” Even as Bann Raeor and Bann Barris both gave her an annoyed glare, the woman looked back at Finley. “Tell me, when you were in Bann Raeor’s land, what did you think of it?”

There was an awkward hush that fell over the table as the different nobles turned to her, and she could just see Josephine holding her breath out of the corner of her eye.

Talk to them like a friend…

“I’m sorry,” Finley offered a little tentatively as the bann gave her an expectant look. “I’m a little weak with…geography names. I have been learning, but there is so much, and a great many countries and as much as Lady Montilyet tries, not everything sticks with me quickly.”

That elicited laughter from a few of the Ferelden nobles. Bann Raeor held up a hand to quiet them. “You know, I had a cousin like you. Names were not his forte. Give him a map and he’d get lost, but tell him to turn left at the big tree with the broken limb and then head south until you see the stacked stones on the far hill, and he could get there before anyone else. My bann is mostly wooded, in the middle of Ferelden…”

As he kept going, Finley perked up, and after a moment, she waved for him to pause. “You’ve got the town with the windmills on either end and the skipping ponds—”

“That look like a swarm of snakes, I’m told.”

“Oh, it does.” Finley nodded.

“I’ve never had the imagination to see that,” he admitted, with a laugh.

Even as Finley offered that she remembered ‘his’ lands as having looked quite lovely—where the demons hadn’t rampaged, of course—another bann began describing her own lands, and it became somewhat of a game as Finley found herself piecing together Ferelden based on plants grown and faces whose names she could slowly associate with places.

“Tell me,” the bann who had sought to embarrass her fellow noble earlier insisted, smile in place. “I have heard you are not Ferelden, and you certainly lack the accent, but you are no Orlesian, either.”

Finley knew of the unfriendly terms between countries, and Josephine had told her of how much the nobility resented each other. However, there had been something of a talk about how she needed to not offend either country, as they would need to work with both.

And so for the first time in almost an hour, Finley felt like perhaps she was in a trap.

Pity they couldn’t just resume the bann game. There were still a few swaths of land she didn’t have a noble to place with.

No question came after the statement, and so Finley finally gave the woman a simple nod, repeating Sera’s advice in her head. “I am not Orlesian.”

The bann—what was her name—tilted her head. “But you are southern. If you are not from Ferelden, and not from Orlais, where are you from?”

“South.” The reply was out before Finley could consider that perhaps she shouldn’t say it.

“South,” the bann echoed. “South of the south.”

“Yes.”

At that, there was a bit of a hush, and then, rather abruptly, a laugh came from the doorway. Turning, Finley found a man striding lazily toward the table. She might have mistaken him for any other noble, were it not for the heavy metal circlet that rested in his hair, similar to Queen Anora’s, and yet more prominent. She walked beside him, expression hard to read.

King Cousland.

Chairs scraped as everyone rose for them, and she followed suit, waiting until they were seated before falling back into hers, feeling oddly trapped to be so near the man who was so renowned for his dislike for mages.

“South of south,” he repeated with a laugh that sent a shiver through her, tilting his head and appraising her, skipping any and all introductions. “So then, you admit that you’re a witch.”

The man had a crooked grin, and a look that said he had a plan. Donovan hadn’t given her word as to what he might have on her yet, but even as he spoke, the earlier fears of whatever he might have over her stemmed, if only a little. It was entirely possible to have something damning on her, but being a witch was not one. If this was his grand trump card…

 _This_ would be a dance she knew well.

“Your majesty,” she murmured, dipping her head as she’d been taught. “There are a great many people who live south of Ferelden, myself included, and the only ones I know of who claim to be witches are little more than mages who fear the bite of the blade.” She paused before adding, “Usually newly escaped Circle mages who somehow think that making themselves seem more dangerous will get people to leave them alone.”

“But not you.”

“I have never claimed to be a witch.” She’d said this before, to Cullen. She thought over what he had said, how he’d drawn conclusions and how his thinking had gone. She took in a slow breath and then motioned to him in what she hoped was a polite manner. “However, there _are_ those who have mistaken me for one.”

“And what do you do when you’re dubbed a witch?”

“I move to a quieter part of the Wilds,” she replied simply, honestly. “Nothing good comes with a witch’s mantle.”

There were a few murmurs of approval from the nobles that struck her as surprising.

At that, King Cousland leaned against the table and stared pointedly at her. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t _believe_ in witches?”

“You do?”

Even as the demon’s whispers that he considered himself a witch hunter echoed in her mind, he shifted back in his seat, pleased with himself. “I’ve slain both Flemeth and one of her daughters.”

“Which one?”

“Her name was Morrigan.”

Even as the king smirked, Finley lightly clasped her hands in front of her, biting her lip a moment before giving him her best polite smile. “Forgive me, but I meant which Flemeth?”

Silence settled over the entire table.

The room was so quiet that Finley couldn’t help but feel like she was the only one breathing.

When no one spoke, Finley fought the urge to look to Cullen for support and instead glanced at Josephine to see how badly her comment had hurt them. However, the ambassador’s face was neutral. Leliana, however, had a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, and Finley took that as the encouragement that she needed. Looking back at the king, she shrugged lightly.

_Like a friend, like a friend, like a friend…_

“I simply mean, as I said, there are some mages who decide that being a witch will keep them safe, and I know half a dozen who claim the title Flemeth.” Mages she knew could be hurt if the wrong information was disclosed, but…these people knew there were mages out in the Wilds. If she kept her stories vague or out of their reach… “I’ve known others and heard of a great many more than that, though most of them meet unfortunate ends rather quickly. However, there’s a lovely little old lady in what I think would be south of Orlais who calls herself thus. She’s the sweetest thing until you walk through her rutabagas.” Finley reached up to scratch at her ear, annoyed that her hair was tied back too well to play with. “You wouldn’t think someone who liked plants so much would be so adept with fire, and yet…”

Bann Barris tilted his head. “Crossed her, did you?”

“I lost an entire coat to her fire.”

The bann let out a surprised laugh. “And what did you do?”

“Well, I didn’t walk through her rutabagas again.”

The laughter at that was such a burst. There was incredulity and amusement and…Finley felt like maybe this wasn’t as scary as she’d thought it was.

“So then, you’re not the Green Witch?”

The words had a harsh edge, and she could see that the king was less than amused with her story.

_Like a friend…_

“When it comes to titles of witches, it is generally several different mages under one mantle,” Finley offered. “I _have_ helped people out of the woods before, so perhaps some of the Green Witch’s stories are based off of me.” It scared her to talk about this, but even as she felt like she couldn’t keep going, she considered how she’d wanted to tell Cullen more of her past before, of how she wanted him to know. Taking in a breath, she thought of Sera and of Cullen and of Donovan. Of the rifts and the places they hurt. “I know I was mistaken for the Witch of the Dales simply because I was a mage traveling through them once. I’ve probably been called Flemeth. It doesn’t make me her. Names in the Wilds do not mean as much as they do here. They are given, taken, and claimed on whims, really.”

“Is that why you have difficulty with them?” the bann from earlier asked. For once, she didn’t seem to be angling to embarrass anyone else.

“It could be,” Finley said, sitting back a little in her chair. “Honestly, I never thought of it.”

“How does that work then, Inquisitor _Finley_?” King Cousland leaned his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers and resting his chin on his hands.

That was not good.

He knew her name wasn’t Finley.

“Forgive me if I flounder,” Finley murmured, tilting her head one way and then another. “I’m not quite used to explaining, but…let me use an old friend. Yeelha was her name. I don’t know if it was her birth name or simply one she chose for herself, but that was her _name_.” It felt like the fun from earlier had been a mere dream as she remembered her fellow apostate. “However, she had others, titles given to her by people who did not know her. She was renowned as the Siren of the South for many years because she loved to sing. She was a healer, someone who helped the lost, a gentle soul. However, she was tal vashoth, and after being seen by villagers who had never seen a qunari and couldn’t imagine one being so far south, they declared her a desire demon because of her horns and magic. The Siren of the South became a witch of malice, a desire abomination, and many stories of escaped Circle mages wreaking havoc were attributed to _her_. Stories of dozens of mages became those of one witch, a witch she had been named.

“She had to leave the home she’d made, but even though she left shortly after the Blight, you will still hear that the Siren of the South wanders the woods south of the Bracillian Forest. Any mage who stays there for more than a week will find themselves with that title, and it doesn’t matter that they don’t have horns or even sing, because people say the Siren is hiding her true form.”

At that, she paused, drumming her fingers against the table when no one spoke. “What I mean is, most of the titles are a little like how the Banns are tied to the bannorn, only in reverse?” She glanced at them, wondering if she made sense. “Except rather than the land named for the people, the people are named for the legend of the land. Mages come and go, but the title is always there, and so outsiders assume the person is the same. It’s how you’ll hear of witches who have lived for hundreds of years. The truth is, they didn’t. It was just different people being called the same thing.” She paused, frowning. “The only titles I know that aren’t set to particular regions are Flemeth and her daughters. It’s typically newly escaped transients who try to claim thus, which is why you’ll hear stories from all over the Wilds of all that Flemeth and her daughters do.”

No need for them to know that there really was a Flemeth, and that whoever the king claimed to have killed, it couldn’t have been the _real_ Flemeth.

That hush returned to the room as she finished speaking, and she wondered if she should have told them anything. Part of her wanted to assert that the Wilds were still very dangerous and they ought not to go wandering through them, witches or no, but she held her tongue.

If there was ever a time she needed to stay on topic, it was now.

It was the king who broke the silence, finally. She rather wished he hadn’t. “In other words, according to you, any mage could pretend to be a witch, and the witches of legends are not real. You’ve never met a real witch?”

“I should think I would remember if I had.”

“Did you consider perhaps they are out there and you are not worth their time?”

At that, Finley blinked, a little surprised. She considered what to say a moment, before thinking about one of the few things that reoccurred in her mind frequently enough these days. “I am told that I can be quite stubborn, and a few months ago I think I would have argued with you about whether witches were real or not, but…I also would have argued that there was no way—magical or other—to split the sky open. It is…painful to admit, but it is possible they could be out there, I suppose.”

As she spoke, she could feel the king’s gaze bearing down on her, even without a spell to tell her so. She looked back at him to see he was staring hard. Apparently, he was not pleased with her concession. “You mentioned escaped Circle mages a few times. I take it you’re not a fan of the Circles?”

“I know very little of them.”

He watched her like a templar.

She wished he would stop.

“You’ve never been in a Circle?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve never been Harrowed.” He crossed his arms.

Finley stared at him blankly. She’d heard of Harrowings before, that it was when mages were fed to demons to try to bring down the population of the Circles. She was fairly certain it wasn’t quite what Donovan had said, but still…

Cullen was the one to speak up, and she loved him for it. “The Inquisitor has faced her share of demons over the last few months, and we are confident in her abilities to resist their temptations.”

“The ones from the rifts?” King Cousland asked, relaxing somewhat as he turned to Cullen. “I’d heard they were mad.”

“Those among others,” Cullen replied, voice sure and steady.

“The Inquisitor faced down an Envy demon at Therinfal Redoubt,” Ser Barris spoke up. “After being kidnapped, she maintained herself and fought against both corrupted templars and the demon controlling them.”

“Without her, you would not be alive,” King Cousland said. His gaze slid to Ser Jensen. “Nor you. The two of you are rather indebted to a mage, aren’t you?”

Finley felt her blood run cold.

She could see herself as a little girl, a large hand wrapped around hers as she stumbled after one of her templars into the woods. Hurry as they might, it hadn’t been enough.

_She’s had her magic less than a week and she’s already corrupted a templar._

“You have been a good king to your people,” Cullen said, even as Finley felt like the world was growing fainter. “Dark magics are harming them now. Let us remedy this before the rifts become too much to handle.”

She wanted to kiss him.

“Oh, I have every intention of letting you handle the rifts and giving you whatever you need to do so,” King Cousland replied, a more genuine smile settling on his features as he nodded to Cullen. The complete change in his demeanor made Finley shift a little in her seat, despite herself. He’d been so…harsh, and yet he was going to work with them after all? “Once I heard _you_ were the Inquisition’s general, I knew any mages— _saviors_ or no—would be properly leashed. You’ve always been good about keeping them in their place.”

She didn’t really hear what he said after that, something about mages not being people or how Finley was a pet or…

Some small part of her heard the objections resound from her side of the table, and noted the way Queen Anora leaned over to hiss something in his ear, calm demeanor breaking for a moment into anger.

However, more than that, she was stuck on what he had said before the insults began.

 _Once I heard_ you _were the Inquisition’s general, I knew the mages would be leashed._

As things started to calm down, she dared a glance toward Cullen, only to feel her heart sink as he quickly looked away, unable to meet her gaze.  

Apparently she didn’t know where she stood as well as she’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	72. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I'm taking so long to update. I've been working on book II of my original fiction series, and it's taking up quite a bit of my time.

Vivienne’s day started with a note slipped under her door as she applied her eyeshadow in the mirror she’d managed to procure. It was smaller than she would have liked, but it was just about the only piece of glass in Skyhold that hadn’t been cracked, and so she’d accepted it, most graciously.

Already, she’d sent for better furniture, for the main hall, the inquisitor’s chambers, and her own, of course. After all, it was hardly selfish to take care of herself while she handled other matters around the castle.

A few of her seamstresses had already made the trip out, though none of them seemed to enjoy working with Herald Finley. It was a problem that would need to be dealt with, though now was hardly the time, seeing as Finley was off trying to form an allegiance with the least influential country in Thedas.

It would be an important stepping stone, but Vivienne still wished they could have found a way to start with Orlais or even a few cities in the Free Marches.

While Ferelden itself wasn’t so terrible a country to ally with, the fact that their king was rumored to be so against magic was…tricky.

Vivienne would have liked to go with Finley, but seeing as she was the Orlesian Court’s enchantress, she was two things that King Cousland couldn’t stand, and Josephine had been such a dear in navigating how to tell that without using any of the king’s words for her.

In truth, she’d already known she wouldn’t be going.

Solas, Dorian, Grand Enchanter Fiona, all of them had been left behind in an attempt to minimize the influence mages might have in the inquisition. It was cheap and felt more like a sellout than anything else, but Vivienne recognized that with the recent chaos that her fellow mages had been wreaking, it was probably best to give the illusion that the Inquisition had a few less mages than they did, if only to put the public at ease.

Especially considering that word was spreading that mages were most welcome there, to be treated as equals instead of locked away as the general public wished.

She also wondered if they hadn’t done this—minimized the mages present in their party—because of the fact that sometimes help was required from unsavory individuals, and if that meant playing up to their comforts to make sure they could be of use, well. It would hardly be the first time she’d had to deal with that.

Most of the time she put said individuals in their place, but even she had to admit that she’d never been up against a king.

Regardless, she’d continued to do her part, sending letters to the appropriate people in a country that mattered, requesting aid and an audience in the court.

Every letter had the same response, even if the flowery words were clumped in different phrases:

With the civil war, it is impossible to sit down with any foreign organizations.

That was the response from both her people on the empress’ and grand duke’s sides.

She understood it well enough. Even if they did gain an audience with one side, they would have to deal with the fallout from the other.

And so she’d turned to trying to find a way to move things along, feeling for where people stood on the civil war, where weaknesses might be in the sides and how she might be able to sway either side into a way that could benefit her.

And the inquisition of course.

Still, it had been years since someone had slipped a letter under her door—in fact, it hadn’t been since she was a young girl in the Circles, working her way up to make sure that no one ever held her back or down.

And so, with no one there to witness, she set aside her makeup and wandered over quietly, picking up the paper to see it wasn’t even in an envelope.

The letter was written in Tevene.

Brow pinching together for but a second, Vivienne finished preparing her face and then slipped out of the room, going about her day as usual, though she kept an eye out for anyone who might be watching her, checking to see what she might do with what she’d been given.

She found the time to go to the library, though to her disappointment, the Tevinter mage had apparently left to rid the world of bandits or some such heroism that sounded more like an excuse to get away from the tranquil than anything else. The man was so wholly unnerved by them.

Vivienne pitied them more than anything.

However, regardless of how she felt, when she turned to find one of the tranquil standing directly behind her, blank gaze focused so completely upon her, she couldn’t help but stand a little taller.

“Do you need something, my dear?”

“You are Lady Vivienne.”

She tilted her head slightly, appraising the woman and pushing aside her desire to react to that eerie monotone. “I am.”

“I can translate your letter.”

At that, Vivienne’s brow arched. “What makes you think I have need for your skills?”

“This morning I found a letter where I work. It said you would need assistance.” The tranquil’s voice was so dead, her expression so lifeless. “I had tasks to complete, of course, but I intended to come find you when they were finished.”

Vivienne stared at the tranquil for what couldn’t have been more than a second, though it felt far too long for her as she gathered herself and made sure that her mask never slipped. Someone had given her a message they knew she couldn’t read and then set one of the tranquil up to translate for her?

Who would do this?

It felt more like a trap of some sort than anything else, and so Vivienne gave the tranquil a pointed smile and shook her head. “I’m afraid whoever left you that note was mistaken. I’m in no need of services.”

Before the tranquil could ask any further questions, she slipped away.

The next day, another note found its way under her door.

Vivienne didn’t bother to go to it until she was ready to leave the room this time, leaning down to pick it up in one quick motion and then frowning as she noticed that this note was similar to the last.

Maker preserve her, it was the same note.

How had someone gotten it out of her room?

After finding no clues about what was going on in her room, she settled for finally inspecting the note itself.

A translation had already been written at the bottom.

Maker help them, but if the words scrawled across the page were true, then the venatori were already in Skyhold, working their way in with the rebel mages as they awaited orders. To do what, it didn’t say, though she could easily imagine.

Even if there were only a few of them, if they started a riot with magic, the templars would lash out and the mages who weren’t involved would fight back. The entire valley would erupt in fighting.

Of course this would be happening when the heads of the organization were away.

Opening the door, she cut her stride short as she found the same tranquil from before waiting for her.

“I translated your note.”

“It is not mine if you need to slip it under the door.”

“The instructions said I was to do so.”

Vivienne frowned. “What instructions?”

The tranquil reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small piece of paper, her motion so smooth, not a single bit of energy wasted.

Were it not for the years she’d spent learning not to let signs of discomfort or unease into her body language, she might have snatched the little paper. Instead, she took it as though she were receiving any other letter, allowing herself to read over the paper without any sign of worry on her face.

_Translate this and slip it under Lady Vivienne de Fer’s door. She will need this._

The handwriting was simple, yet clear.

“Who gave this to you?”

“It was at my work station.”

“So you’ve no idea who might want me to read this? Templar? Mage? Other?”

“Do you need anything else of me?” The woman asked in that pitiful monotone, expression blank as ever. “I was told to bring the note, but not what to do after.”

Taking in a slow breath, Vivienne gave the tranquil a practiced smile. “No, my dear. You may go.”

“Goodbye.”

And with that, the tranquil turned on her heels and headed off to whatever part of the library she worked in.

Vivienne stood outside her door a moment longer, glancing down to compare the notes. None of the handwritings matched, which made sense, if the first note really was intercepted from some plot afoot.

But what if it wasn’t?

Who would benefit from a witch hunt, so to speak, now of all times?

Could the templars be behind this? Were they coming to her because they knew she would be loyal to the Chantry and they thought she would easily toss her fellow mages to the wolves?

No sooner had her door closed, she was en route to see someone she’d dearly hoped she could avoid for the rest of her days.

Grand Enchanter Fiona.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and sticking with me through the breaks between chapters! <3


	73. Unraveling

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dorian muttered as he stared out over the ‘grand’ city of Denerim. This lot would have a heart attack if they saw Minrathous, with its historical buildings and gilded halls, statues of old gods and Andraste alike towering along the streets, watching the world in judgmental silence.

Well, the dog statues did seem…a bit judgmental if not ungodly repetitive.

He’d heard over and over how Ferelden loved their mangy beasts, and yet, even with wandering through the countryside, he hadn’t expected quite so many of them in the capital.

Andraste’s flaming tits, but he was fairly certain half of the city’s population was canine.

And then the buildings seemed to want to make up for there not being enough of the mongrels wandering the streets by having at least one carved into every single one.

Maker’s balls, but it was…

“Their doorways are a bit small, aren’t they?”

Dorian jolted at the sound in his ear and turned to see the Iron Bull leaning down just behind him, grin lighting up his face as soon as their gazes met.

With a scowl, Dorian turned away from their vantage point. The trip to Denerim had been a quick one, fortunately, though it had hardly felt like it at the time. With each thud of a hoof, Dorian’s mind whirred with what his countrymen might be doing in the capital.

Were they looking to start an outright war with the south?

Because if they successfully hurt Ferelden, it felt like something like that would happen.

Assuming, of course, Orlais didn’t take a break from its civil war to just sweep out and retake Ferelden while it sunk into chaos. That would be done in the name of keeping the south stable, of course.

This whole thing was such a mess.

More so, considering the Iron Bull’s latest brilliant idea.

“I’m not putting that on.”

The Iron Bull was holding out the source of Dorian’s earlier incredulity: a Venatori robe.

The damned cultists seemed to spawn from the shadows themselves, especially the closer to the castle they got.

And then, when a few castle guards had assisted the Venatori rather than Dorian and his heroic companions in arms, they’d reconsidered just walking up and presenting themselves as Inquisition members to the gate, because something was definitely amiss.

“The king isn’t going to welcome a rogue Vint, even if the worst case is true, and he’s working with the Venatori. We’re going to need to sneak in. If you want to be useful, you’ll put it on.”

The Iron Bull was getting on Dorian’s last nerve.

“And how do you plan to sneak past everyone? Going to play someone’s pet?”

“I prefer to hold the leash, if we’re being honest.” The Iron Bull’s grin was back full force. “And at this point, everyone worth their salt has heard about the Qunari in the Inquisition. I might as well make an appearance.”

Dorian’s lips moved, though no sound came out, and finally, without thinking, he grabbed the robe between them so that he could step closer and grip The Iron Bull’s hand as well. “Are you telling me you plan to just walk up to the gates?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Then what in the Void will I be doing with this?” Dorian whispered as harshly as he could without raising his voice.

“You’ll be sneaking in to find out how many Venatori are here.” The Iron Bull paused before adding, “And who they’re working with and what they’re planning. It should be easy enough for such a _skilled_ altus.”

“So earlier when you said ‘we’ you meant ‘me’.”

“I was under the impression you liked when everything was about you.”

 “I’ll be going with you,” Krem said as he stepped up, carefully appraising a set of heavier Venatori armor with a frown that said he was less than pleased with the plan as well.  

The closer they’d gotten to the castle, the more careful they’d been, especially after the incident with the Denerim guards. They’d managed to avoid most conflict after that, only for Skinner and Grim to reappear—Dorian didn’t even know when they’d left the main group—with clothes. One set of armor and one set of robes.

Rolling his eyes, Dorian looked down at the robes and took in a measured breath. “Look. I’m not saying subterfuge isn’t necessary, but I don’t know their passwords or their special handshakes or anything like that.”

“You’ve got the accent, though,” Dalish pointed out. As he slowly turned to glare at her, she shrugged from her perch with Rocky and Skinner. “How many Vints are this far south?”

“In that, they will assume you are just too stupid to remember the code,” Skinner added, swinging her feet slowly against the crates they were perched atop. Either her heels stopped short of the wood, or she somehow thudded them silently.

As Dorian set his jaw and looked back at the Iron Bull and Krem, the latter motioned to himself. From what he could see of the armor set, there wasn’t a lot actually to it. “At least you’re not going to freeze to death if we get lost.”

Shoulders slumping, Dorian stared down at the robes.

He’d come here to help, but…

Dressing as the Venatori hardly felt like it was going to help. If anything, he’d get a sword through him.

However, the longer he delayed, the more time the Venatori had to set their plan into action. If he could stop his countrymen from doing whatever it was they were planning, then it would be worth it.

With a pointed look of displeasure directed at The Iron Bull, he stood a little straighter as he pivoted away to find a private nook to change in.

When he came back out, however, dressed from head to toe in Venatori garb, he found that the whole lot of them were grinning like asses.

“Told you we could get him to do it.” The Iron Bull’s grin made him want to set the qunari on fire.

Instead, Dorian stood up a bit straighter as the hectic-ness of the last few days settled.

Of course the Venatori wouldn’t be wearing this sort of thing in the castle itself, they would want to blend in until whatever attack they were planning could be executed. Waltzing in in Venatori robes would just draw unwanted attention and all but prove that they were spies.

With an eye roll toward the heavens and a heaved sigh, Dorian turned on his heels and headed back to change into his proper attire.

…-…

He wanted to scream as Skinner’s words echoed in his mind.

This was too…easy.

He would have assumed that any group willing to follow a damned darkspawn had to be out of its mind, and that their insanity would come with paranoia.

However, the few people they did encounter who had Tevinter accents all seemed to accept them based on accent alone. They were all non-mages so far. Underlings who stood straighter when they recognized Dorian as a mage.

Underlings who didn’t know anything, but fretted that ‘something was wrong’.

One had asked him to fix the illusory spells and he’d promised to get right on that, but hadn’t been able to figure out what they were talking about and knew that asking would make him seem suspicious.

What really baffled him, though, was that they were all so clearly Tevinter, and yet they seemed so well integrated with the castle.

Maker, but sometimes, when they spoke, their accents seemed to just disappear. They all seemed more chatty then, only to grow panicky and quiet when their accents started to push through.

He’d been puzzled further when he and Krem had slipped up to a corner and listened to one of the Venatori speaking with a maid. The woman seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he didn’t fit in. She was so painfully clearly Ferelden, yet Dorian could swear that he heard a hint of the Tevene accent in her voice, as well.

It made no sense.

Even as Krem openly wondered about whether magic might be involved, Dorian glanced over his shoulder down a side hall and noticed two figures picking away at a wall. As he recognized their slight forms to be that of elves, there was a pop of magic and both ducked down as though dodging some sort of backlash.

And then the maid let out an odd laugh.

“Why are you talking like that now?”

“Like what?”

“That accent…stop it. It sounds…”

“Just thought I’d mess around.” The accent was a horrible attempt at Ferelden.

The maid crossed her arms, frowning at him. “Look, I’ve had enough of this silliness. I—who are you?”

The venatori flinched at the question, hand reaching back for a dagger tucked into his belt.

“Shit,” Krem hissed.

He was around the corner before Dorian could stop him, catching the Venatori member off guard and telling the maid to run. She stood there in silent shock for a moment before doing as he said and bolting.

Dorian had hoped to get more—any, really—information before revealing themselves, but he supposed his companion’s chivalry was admirable.

They’d made quick work of the man they’d revealed themselves to, but before his body had even hit the floor, there was a shriek from down the hall. As Dorian let his last spell leave his fingertips, he shot a look over his shoulder and grimaced.

The maid fell before another blade, and another two warriors were already charging past her, heading toward Krem and Dorian.

Krem let out a soft curse before bracing himself rather than charging off again.

Dorian would have been happy to help with those two, if not for the other three coming on their heels, two rogues and a mage.

Of course there was a mage.

And all of their accents spoke to their being Venatori.

How many of these bastards had made it into the castle?

He didn’t have time for such musings as both rogues decided to go after him, the mage joining the numbers against Krem.

Dorian tried to object, tried to say that they were on the same side—a pitiful ruse, but he’d hoped their accents might help them find out what the overall plan was before everything fell apart—but having already downed one of their enemy, the others were in no mood to listen.

He and Krem had managed to get back to back to help a little, but even as he wondered how strong a spell he could use without drawing anymore unwanted attention, an arrow flew over his shoulder, striking the mage in front of Krem square in the face.

He heard a familiar cry and both he and Krem went on the offensive.

The battle was a blur, over so quickly that Dorian found himself whirling around, looking for his next target only to let out a sharp hiss as a staff slammed into his stomach.

As he hit the ground, two things happened. First, Krem moved to cover him, though he didn’t charge. Secondly, he heard Sera’s voice snap, “I already told you. Not that one.”

There were a few more words snapped back and forth, but when it became clear that they weren’t in immediate danger, Krem eased his stance and turned to help Dorian up. With a nod of thanks, Dorian peered past him.

An older elven mage was arguing with Sera, hissing as he parroted what Dorian had said earlier.

So these were the two who had messed with the wall.

“We were trying to infiltrate their ranks,” Krem said, stepping forward and offering a hand. “We’re Inquisition.”

“Told you.” Sera crossed her arms pointedly, glaring at the other elf and eyeing him warily.

The older elf leaned against his staff as though his back were aching from all the fighting, though the feeble old man look didn’t fool Dorian for an instant. Turning his attention to Sera, he motioned around them. “Do you know where Finley is? She’s likely in danger.”

“Meeting with the noble prats.” Sera spat to the side, frowning. “There’s something up, though. Venatori. They got these weird symbols on the walls—”

“It’s a spell to mask their accents so they sound Ferelden to whoever hears them.”

Krem considered it and nodded. “Well, that would make it easier to do whatever they’re planning. An attack of some sort. Don’t suppose you heard anything about that?”

“Well, no news on that, but we been getting rid of their spells and stuff,” Sera muttered.

“They’ve caught on that someone’s sabotaging them, though,” the other elf said. He straightened up a little, with surprising effort. “We’ve had to skip a few of their spells, just to avoid being caught. If they are planning something though, I’d wager they’ll set it in motion soon, seeing as their cover is unraveling.”

“We need to get word to Finley. And the chief.”

“I would think we would want to know what’s actually going on, first.” With a hand on hip, Dorian rolled his eyes toward Krem, frown more pronounced by his moustache.

“Vint’s got a point.” As Sera spoke, she rummaged through the different Venatori’s pockets, pulling out every paper she found. “Shite. These buggers don’t got a thing. Can’t ever be easy, can it?”

The bodies in the hallway were going to draw attention sooner than later, and so at the older elf’s behest, they slipped into a room off the hall to talk. Just as they began to debate how to go through with their plans,  Dorian realized that they were one short.

Looking around and daring to peer into the nearest door, he turned back to the others. “Where’d that older elf go?”

A cry rang out from down the hall before Sera or Krem could respond from down the hall, though it was—surprisingly enough—not because of the bodies strewn about.

In no time, the words were echoing through the halls, and Dorian cursed quietly under his breath.

They’d wanted to put a stop to whatever was going to happen, but they were too late.

The clank of metal echoed through the halls just before another sharp cry.

“The castle’s under attack!”  

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for putting up with the long waits between updates. <3


	74. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Dinner had been horrible.

An idiot spewing hateful words at her was hardly something new, but Finley had been bothered by the comradery that the king attempted with Cullen, all evening. There had been talk of Kinloch Hold being taken over by blood mages and abominations, of the rumored strictness of Kirkwall’s Circle, and the king’s personal opinions on how the mages ought to be handled.

Nothing that Finley honestly cared to hear about.

Worse, to answer most of the comments directed at him, Cullen had merely sidestepped, redirecting the conversation to current events and how the Inquisition was doing and what it would need of Ferelden.

Finley wanted him to outright argue with King Cousland, to demand he not make such callous comments, to say that he did not think so little of mages and never had.

Instead, it was other voices that rose to defend. Leliana, Ser Yorric, Josephine.

It bothered her more than she could explain, and she finally decided that Cullen’s reservations must have to do with a calculation of some kind. A strategy. People like King Cousland were set in their ways, so full of hate that they’d poison the air around them until their deaths. There was no point outright arguing with him.

She wanted to think that was what this was.

And yet…

Cullen just looked like it was all he could do not to fall apart.

And he’d avoided even looking at Finley, jaw set and a light sweat upon a paling pallor.

Clearly the conversation was making him uncomfortable, but it wasn’t until someone asked what had happened in Kinloch—one of the nobles asked, their voice so bored that Finley was surprised they didn’t die of it on the spot—and the king had gleefully launched into what promised to be a full story.

Even as he started to explain what the ‘damnable mages’ had done to their brethren and templars alike, Cullen had abruptly slammed one hand on the table.

“We are all well aware of what blood mages can do.”

For a moment, a hush fell over the table as King Cousland blinked, clearly surprised at having been interrupted. The rest of the room seemed to hold their collective breath. It was as if everyone was waiting to see if the king would fly into a rage.

And then he let out a friendly sigh and shook his head. “My apologies. I forget that you had to live through that whole ordeal as a prisoner.”

Cullen’s hands were balled into fists, his knuckles white. Rather than respond, he simply nodded. The movement was so tight, so controlled.

And then it clicked into place.

Finley remembered well the terror that still tightened her lungs when she thought too much about her time with her parents, of the people they’d hurt, the things they’d done to her, the songbirds.

If Cullen had been in Kinloch Hold and it had been completely overrun by dozens of blood mages and abominations, he must have gone through something similar.

No wonder he was jumpy around magic.

She’d always figured it was something typical, not really understanding the depth of whatever had happened at Kinloch.

Now, though…

Queen Anora had finally stepped in, drawing the conversation to more pleasant topics. There were even a few moments when everyone seemed to get along, so long as she was leading.

Somehow, they made it through the meal without any blood spilling, and then they were ushered off to have private conversations about what might be done, as though they hadn’t already spent the evening talking about it.

It seemed the whole thing was for show or some manner of one to appease and ruffle feathers in one.

Finley didn’t really follow all that was going on, though she tried to pretend she did, if only to make it a little less obvious that she was so lost.  

Finley wasn’t required to talk much for this part, fortunately—nor was Cullen—and Finley sat beside Josephine while Cullen leaned against the wall near the doorway, gaze dark and attention sharp, lips occasionally twitching down when he heard a deal proposed that wouldn’t work for them.

Josephine was amazing when it came to tailoring them, and Queen Anora seemed to have a great deal of sway on her own side, quietly, yet succinctly shutting down the king whenever he started one of his rants.

She seemed to have more power behind closed doors. It made Finley wonder why the queen let her husband talk at all.

There was no love lost between them, either. They were formal and never touched, always so proper.

Though, that might have had to do with politics and polite company.

After all, Finley didn’t have her fingers laced with Cullen’s.

As the night wore on, things began to fall into place slowly, with maps handed over to the Inquisition of remaining rifts along the east coast and in a few other places they hadn’t reached as of yet.

Promises of aid and support were being made when there was a sharp yell from down the hall.

The room fell silent as Cullen shot upright, hand on the hilt of his blade as he listened to the door and then cursed. “Someone’s raising the alarm.”

No sooner had he spoken, they could hear plated boots thudding in the hallway outside. Finley fought the urge to flinch away from the sound, though she did rise to her feet as the door swung open.

A heal was off her lips before she realized it as a wounded guard stumbled inside, eyes wide and wild. “My liege, we’re under attack!”

King Cousland and Queen Anora were both on their feet. The king drew two swords he’d had hanging on his hips, only to toss one to the queen, who caught it nimbly. His gaze snapped toward Finley as he motioned toward her and Josephine. “Anora will take you somewhere safe.” When she blinked, surprised, the king rolled his eyes a look of open contempt on his features. “No point in losing that hand of yours to some petty ploy. We’ll come get you when this is settled.”

Even as Finley moved to protest, Cassandra snapped orders for Ser Yorric and Ser Jensen to come with her as she joined Finley’s group.

“Wait—”

Finley’s cry fell on deaf ears and an empty doorway as Leliana and Cullen disappeared with the other guards and king. She started after them, only for Ser Yorric to step in her path. His eyes widened as she drew herself up, but it was Queen Anora who spoke.

“Inquisitor, I would be surprised if you thought anything kind of my husband, but his point, while poorly worded, stands. You must be protected, and the world will not fall because Ferelden forsook Andraste’s chosen.”

It was the first time in the city that she’d been openly referred to as such, and it startled her enough that, before she knew what was going on, Josephine had linked hands with her and they were slipping out a side passage with the queen.

This made no sense.

She was always getting shoved into harm’s way. Demons, the Breach, dragons, monsters.

Yet they drew the line at…

What was this even?

Two of the royal guard had stayed with them as well as the queen’s handmaid, and they led their group’s way through winding, narrow servants’ halls. Sometimes the sounds of fighting grew closer, but she could hardly pay attention to that.

Both templars were at her back, and she couldn’t help but shudder every now and again under their gazes.

It was because of that nuisance that she didn’t notice the hum of magic in the air until it was almost on them.

With a cry, she tossed shields up as fast as she could, just as a large blast of fire shot down a side hall into the guards and the queen.

Her stomach tightened, and she threw herself against the wall closest to the adjoining hall with Josephine, so as to not be seen immediately. She was already weaving a few frantic spells over Queen Anora when Ser Yorric charged past her and around the corner.

Magic crackled, though it was a cry from Cassandra that silenced it.

Ser Jensen remained in front of Finley and Josephine, weapon drawn as he looked back and forth down the hall, making sure there weren’t going to be any more surprises.

Even as Finley finally dared to move away to the wall to help Erlina help Queen Anora up—she had a few bruises from where she’d been flung down by the force of the blast, but Finley had saved her from any burns.

One of her guards had not been so lucky, and Finley cursed quietly as she healed the other. Ser Jensen stayed near her like a shadow, though she barely had time to notice.

As soon as she’d healed the surviving guard well enough that he could move—the two of them had taken the brunt of the spell, saving their queen—Cassandra’s voice snapped through the air. “The attackers are Venatori.”

Queen Anora stood straighter at that. “You’re trying to tell me Tevinters infiltrated my castle?”

“We need to get you and the inquisitor to safety,” Cassandra replied, ignoring the question.

As much as the queen looked ready to argue, she set her jaw and gripped her sword tighter. “Let’s go.”

This time, Finley kept shields up on everyone as they moved, refreshing them the second they began to wane.

The next time they were attacked, they were prepared.

Those with weapons made quick work of their attackers, and Finley kept them up. As she was healing Cassandra, she noticed a small wasp flitting around near the ceiling.

Even as she saw it, a templar interrupt slammed into it, the magic flickering brightly before dying out, small leaves falling to the ground in its place.

Ser Jensen’s boot nudged the leaves as he peered down at them. “What was that?”

“Nothing, now.” Ser Yorric shoved his shoulder and then motioned for Finley to move ahead of them again.

“It _was_ something, though. A spell. Do you think they were tracking us with it?” Ser Jensen bent down to pick up the leaves, staring blankly at them.

Had it been a message from Marcus or Yeelha or half a dozen other mages, there would have been writing somewhere on it. Donovan, too, sometimes, though he preferred to use his wasps to summon people when he could.

When Ser Jensen finally gave up on the mystery, letting the leaves drop away to show no message scribbled, Finley let out a breath she’d been holding.

Ser Jensen kept an eye out for more spells—something that Finley would have to figure out how to deal with later—but for the rest of their travels through the servants’ halls, they didn’t see any more.

It bothered Finley.

Had Donovan been trying to call her to him?

He wouldn’t come to where she was, would he?

What if they mistook him for an enemy?

She hadn’t exactly announced his presence to anyone.

Just as she thought to mention him—as much as she felt it would be a betrayal of his trust, she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying because of her—lightning crackled through the air, arcing over them and hitting square between Ser Yorric and Ser Jensen.

Both templars flew into the dirt, Finley’s shields keeping them from meeting their beloved Maker just yet.

They’d made it out of the castle, and more surprisingly, out of the city. The castle’s outer walls led to the fields that surrounded Denerim, and Finley instantly felt that old itch to just take off running and keep going.

She ignored it, instead healing, shielding, warding.

The Venatori had followed them out, and the only advantage they had was that the hall was narrow enough that their pursuers couldn’t all get a clear shot of them.

However, it left them trying to defend the exit, and find a way to close it before their attackers could overwhelm them.

As Finley cast another heal on Ser Jensen as a fireball grazed the side of his head, she felt a sharp prick against her neck and darted to the side to see that one of the Venatori’s rogues had somehow gotten behind her.

He was frozen in place, surprise plastered to his features as he stared at her, as though she’d done it.

Then, Queen Anora beheaded him.

“Are you alright, inquisitor?”

As Finley nodded, she saw a small wasp flit up, and glanced up at the top of the wall to see familiar robes disappear over the edge.

So he had come to check on her.

Even as she felt a wash of relief, Ser Jensen scowled. They’d managed to fight through all of their enemies, and he wiped a bit of blood from his lip as Finley healed him. “We have to move. More are coming.” As he spoke, he gave Ser Yorric a sharp look. “I saw another of those damned wasps. They _are_ spying on us.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for them,” Finley offered, the words tumbling out a bit too quickly, perhaps.

If it set off any warning bells in either templar’s head, they made no show of it. Though that hardly meant they hadn’t noticed.

Finley shrugged a little, motioning toward Queen Anora and the others who were already urging them to hurry. “I’d rather you not be distracted right now.”

Ser Jensen was quick to assure her that he could be diligent all around, though it was Ser Yorric’s reaction that frightened her more.

For just an instant, he narrowed his eyes.

Then his smile was back, and he was hurrying them on, friendly as ever.

As Finley glanced over her shoulder, toward the castle and the people left behind, she couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t thought to get separated from the group before this. The feeling only got worse as the world quieted down around them, and she was left feeling that prickling sensation of a templar watching her from behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 Real life is currently kicking my ass, but I hope to update a little bit more frequently in the near future.


	75. Regret

The halls were quiet.

Quiet enough that if one closed their eyes, one wouldn’t know that there had been chaos just a few short minutes ago.

The temptation of that reprieve was overwhelming, but with all the madness that had befallen the castle, Cullen didn’t dare close his eyes.

In a way, he felt like he was back in Kinloch Hold. Well…there had been more demons in Kinloch.

A few Venatori had resorted to demons when they realized they were outnumbered, but most of them had fought as themselves, with whatever blood they could get ahold of.

Cullen felt sick, though it was less from the dull throbbing in his head and the images bubbling up in his mind that threatened to swallow him whole and more from the fact that King Cousland had made more than a few dry comments about mages, and more than once, Cullen had instinctively agreed.

Never out loud, but that hardly changed anything.

Mages _did_ turn to blood magic with too much ease. Mages _were_ a threat. Mages _were_ dangerous.

He had though he was doing better than this.

They…were, but not _all_ of them…

Well, all of them had _potential_ to become something monstrous, but…

Maker, it was hard to think beyond that pounding in his head, but he tried. He tried to think of the mages who had survived Kinloch having never fallen to a demon’s sway—even though he _had_ tried to condemn them back then, now he could look back and see that they weren’t so different from Finley. Frightened and still clinging to goodness because that was a part of who they were.

He thought of the mages who had surrendered in the Gallows, despite all the signs that their surrender would lead to their deaths, rather than turn to blood. Of the mages who worked for the Inquisition now.

He thought of Finley.

And still his mind would snap back to those hateful thoughts, those hissing whispers that the world would be better off with every mage tranquil, unable to cause so much devastation.

Surana had been a friend, had passed their Harrowing and done so well. They had joked with him, offered opinions on how the Circles could be made better, and Cullen had thought there was merit in their ideas.

And all the while they’d been practicing blood magic with Jowan, waiting for a moment of weakness to tear their way through the templar ranks. All those conversations, those smiles, what Cullen had thought of as a friendship—one he’d been proud of, despite a few more seasoned templars warning him against it.

It had all been lies.

And then Meredith… she’d been so quick to fan those fears, to point out each time she caught a mage in a white lie with a simple glance at him or whisper. She’d ask him what he thought they were hiding, nod in approval when he followed his paranoia to find blood magic.

Mages fell to demons’ sway too easily.

He wanted to believe otherwise, but it was so hard when his fears were reinforced over and over.

Kinloch.

Kirkwall.

Haven.

Now.

If only he could get away from it all, from both sides and give his mind time to settle, time to heal. Then he could hear his own thoughts again and maybe…

Maker, his head hurt.

“Commander.”

Leliana’s voice was quiet, with a hint of impatience, and Cullen wondered how many times she had called to him before he’d heard.

In the very least, it grounded him in the present.

“Have they found Finley yet?” The question hardly sounded like something professional, but he couldn’t care. He wanted to know that she was alright. That she wasn’t one of the bodies still being gathered from the halls to be burned.

“They escaped and headed to a safe house just out of town,” Leliana stated, voice smoother, a practiced smile in place. Of the other advisors, Leliana was the one he least liked to be alone with. There was the fact that she knew his past, but also that she was so damned good at schooling her emotions. In some ways, he thought she was better than Josephine.

And that terrified him.

“We’ve already sent someone to retrieve them.”

“You’re sure it’s safe?” Cullen asked, his voice managing at least a little of his usual confidence. “I’d be loath to invite them back into more chaos.”

Leliana’s picturesque demeanor faltered for just an instance, a scolding look in place for just a breath before she was distant and polite again. “We are sure, commander.”

He tried not to feel the weight of her look or the way she was talking to him. He wished Cassandra or Josephine were there to change the subject or bring up another aspect of danger he wasn’t thinking of.

He thanked the Maker silently when an Inquisition soldier came in, calling for his attention. Out of the Inquisition’s home, he felt like he had hardly any power. Most of their soldiers were off elsewhere, and the few that were here were having to work with and report to the Denerim castle guard.

He felt so out of place.

At least things had quieted down.

There had been high casualties at first, when the venatori had taken them by surprise. However, the tables had turned quick enough, especially when the Chargers showed up. Cullen was a bit surprised by that, but welcomed the help.

Now, as he dismissed the soldier, he found the Iron Bull waiting for an audience. He pretended not to care when the qunari motioned Leliana over as well.

“I thought you might want to know what brought us here.”

 

Cullen slumped onto the edge of his bed, once again feeling as though he was less than useless. The Bull and his company had headed back out into the city after the crisis was over, saying that they were going to gather a few friends and head back to Skyhold.

To keep an eye on things until Leliana could figure out what to do.

While their warning about the Venatori attack in Denerim had come a mite bit late, the fact that the Venatori had infiltrated Skyhold already was more than a little disheartening.

Leliana was sending word to her more trusted scouts, as well as a few of them from Denerim now.

It was a matter that Cullen could do little for, and it added to his feeling of ineptitude.

He’d been praised by the king for his ideas in flushing out the remaining Venatori in the castle—which had worked perfectly—and yet it felt so hollow.

He didn’t want to be on good terms with the king. Put nicely, the man was a prick, and he echoed so many things that Cullen had been trying to overcome.

So many fears.

“Commander?”

Cullen’s eyes widened, and he shot to his feet, looking first to the door, puzzled that he hadn’t heard a knock. It was closed, however, and as he turned, he found Finley resting on his windowsill, watching him in the dim candlelight, concerned.

His fingers found the way to the back of his neck, and he rubbed at his skin, feeling foolish for having been caught feeling so powerless.

“Inquisitor,” he murmured, doing his best to keep his voice low as he walked over to her. She was already a few steps into his room now. “You shouldn’t be sneaking in like this.”

“I don’t care about our credibility.” She stopped when she was in front of him, reaching out and inspecting him carefully. It took him a moment to realize she was checking for injuries.

“I’m fine.” He caught her hand as it brushed down his arm and held it. “Your guards need to know where you are.”

“You know where I am.”

Cullen drew in a slow breath, closing his eyes. They’d been over this before, and yet she was so stubborn. Before he could try to explain—again—how important it was that they be able to keep track of her and ensure her safety, she lightly tugged his hand and led him over to his bed.

As he started to protest, she pushed on his chest, indicating he sit down. “Let me finish getting a look at you and then I’ll go.”

Despite his skepticism, he wearily sat down on the edge of his bed again, looking up at her through tired eyes. “I’ll walk you back to your chambers when you’re satisfied.”

“That will just raise questions,” Finley murmured, fingers feathering across his skin as she inspected every inch of him. He wanted to pull her into his lap and tangle his fingers in her hair. To hold her close.

Instead, he simply sighed as she tilted his head this way and that and checked his arms.

“I’ll go back the way I came. No one will see me,” Finley said, finally straightening back. She placed her hand against his forehead and her palm was cool. Without thinking, he leaned into her touch.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” If she could do that, who else could?

She didn’t seem overly concerned, however, instead gently letting her fingers comb through his hair. A silent moment passed between them before Finley abruptly sat down next to him. She fidgeted a moment before motioning to him. “This trip has been hard for you.”

He blinked, a creeping dread curling in his gut. “What?”

“I…heard a little of what happened at Kinloch Hold.” Finley was playing with her hair, the way she always did when she was nervous. He didn’t want her to be like that.

Not around him.

Maker, if she’d heard about Kinloch Hold though…

“When I was a little girl…” She trailed off midsentence, expression switching between a myriad of emotions before she finally shook her head. “My parents were not particularly good people. I don’t remember much of them, but they were maleficar. They hurt people. They hurt me.”

Cullen turned on his bed, reaching out to take one of her hands, not understanding why she would bring that up. How it could have anything to do with Kinloch Hold or him.

Before he could think of anything to say, she was talking again, quickly. “What I mean is, when I was a girl, I was very afraid of magic. I think…if I hadn’t had my own, I would have always been terrified of mages, myself. And I still don’t like blood mages. I mean, no one with any sense likes blood mages, but I _really_ don’t…well, I’m trying to say…” She let out a frustrated huff and looked at him. “I understand. Why you’re so cautious around magic, that is. If I hadn’t had it first hand and been able to see the good it can do, I—”

Her words cut off as Cullen tugged her into his lap, folding himself around her, clinging to her.

To hear her say that, it was more than he could take.

There was so much he wanted to say to her.

So much.

That she had been hurt with blood magic made his heart hurt, but more than that, that she could compare whatever she’d been through…

She had risen above her fears, become a healer, a protector.

He’d…

He hadn’t.

Maker, the things that had happened that he hadn’t stopped…

And she was considering them the same?

He should have told her the truth, of the blood on his hands, of the things he’d done so very, very wrong.

He should have, but her arms were around him, her head resting against his, and he needed her there. It was selfish and cruel to let her think she knew him, that he was a decent man, but he wanted to be.

He wanted to be good, to make up for what had happened, to be the protector he’d dreamed of being as a boy.

The words were damned up inside of him, though, caught behind the quiet tears that spilled forth instead, as he held on to the innocent woman in his arms.

He didn’t deserve her, but he couldn’t let her go, either.

Not now. Not tonight.

He felt her lips brush against his hair. “You’ll be alright, Cullen.”

Maker, how he wished that could be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy snapple. I did not mean to go over two months without an update. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and I will def try to get at least 2 more chapters up before the new year.


	76. In the Shadows

Vivienne was a master at the Game. She could read a person with a glance, figure out their weaknesses by the end of a pleasantry.

However, there was more to the Game than simple tricks like that. One had to hear the right secrets, eavesdrop on the right rumors, and when she’d been a girl, just rising through the ranks of the Circle, she hadn’t had her current network available to help her acquire such juicy details.

Indeed, as a girl, she had been on her own.

Yes, she’d learned posturing and the like. However, she’d been a mage before she was a proficient in the Game, and that had come with another set of skills, one she was careful not to share with anyone.

When she knew things that shouldn’t have gotten to her, people decided a maid or guard had spoken, that she had someone from her enemies’ homes whispering in her ear.

She let them think as they like. It was fun to leave the Orlesian nobility paranoid. It made them fear her, and that made them cautious when it came to attempts to take her down.

It secured her position and made her network seem larger than it was.

The truth of it was that she did more than a bit of the grunt work herself, behind closed doors.

Her pen stopped as she worked on her latest letter to secure favor from one of her less known acquaintances, and her eyes glimmered a soft gold.

Her spell was working, as always.

She was almost disappointed that the Venatori hadn’t noticed it right away. It might have been fun to have a challenge, though this was for the best.

With a soft-spoken word, her pupils blew out, making her irises almost invisible. As they did, her view of the letter on her desk faded out. For a moment, all she could see was shadows and vague shapes, little color to them.

It didn’t last long, and soon she was peering into another room, watching as three men whispered to each other. They held a paper between them and kept motioning to it, voices low and frantic.

Tapping her nails against her desk, she walked her hand slowly in a half circle and her view of the room shifted, with just a hint of soft, padded feet moving at the bottom of her image. When she let her hand slip into her lap, she could see behind the mages.

The paper was, as she’d suspected, written in Tevene.

Pity, that.

She leaned forward a little, narrowing her eyes, and her view of the men drew closer.

They were talking in Tevene as well.

Then, the door to the room opened.

Vivienne straightened up, taking in more of the room and frowning when she saw a mage enter. She knew her. Had seen her at least, with some of the Grand Enchanter’s mages.

Of course Fiona was too daft to catch a traitor in her midst. She was too busy acting rashly to notice anything important. The old bat ought to just retire already, head off to some secluded grotto and live out her days away from important dealings.

“I heard that things went south in the capital?” the Circle mage asked, accent Nevarran. One of the Venatori hissed at her to keep her voice down, but she persisted. “Are we going to need to make our move then? I haven’t had time to talk to many people… I don’t know how much support we’d get.”

A taller Venatori reached out and smacked her. “Quiet! We do not need _people_ to take the castle.”

Vivienne blinked, her room coming back into view as the shadows parted. If they weren’t worried about large forces, that meant demons didn’t it?

Blood mages always went for demons.

Vivienne slid her chair back and then stepped over to her dresser, plucking her staff from where it rested there. She held the staff, feeling the weight in her hands, and then struck its base against the floor twice.

With the second crack, the staff was gone, and she leaned down to pick up what could have been mistaken as a hair stick. She tucked it up her sleeve and headed out. After all, it wouldn’t do to wander around with her staff openly visible. People would suspect that there was a problem, and she wanted to handle this quietly, if possible.

Outside, a small black cat sat on the rail that overlooked the garden, perfectly still until Vivenne’s shadow crossed it. It moved with the shadow, shape stretching a moment before it hopped down and trotted ahead of Vivienne, leading to where the traitors were.

There were stories of people who could manipulate animals and the like, but Vivienne had never been one for pets. They hadn’t been allowed in the Circles, and after that, she’d seen plenty of nobles brought to tears at the loss or abduction of their favorite little beasts.

Truly, they were a weakness that one had to be damned sure they could overcome.

She’d never found a reason to test the waters to see if she could protect something so small and needy.

Instead, she shaped the shadows.

If she’d ever wanted to try, she likely could have learned to make all kinds of shadow puppets, but real people were so much more fun.

And her cat served its purpose.

It had alerted her to incoming templars—that they’d never noticed a spell watching them was appalling—as well as allowed her to peek into enemies’ homes without ever leaving her own. The spell was easy enough, too, sending the shadow out to wander, and to alert her if it found something. If it did, she extend her sight to her creation, for a limited time.

It had taken years to perfect, but it was a masterpiece.

There was the matter of being vulnerable while seeing through her spell’s eyes, but that was why she reserved it for special occasions.

Vivienne stilled as her cat did. She could hear voices ahead, and so she dispersed her shadowy guide with a curl of her fingers. She was in the lower levels of the castle, near the kitchen, she guessed, though she wasn’t overly familiar with this area. She could, however, see candle light flickering ahead.

Stepping lightly, she moved to the doorway, pausing there to peer in.

She pursed her lips when she saw that there were nearly twenty mages there to assist the Venatori—and eight of them rather than three.

Unfortunate.

She was confident she could take care of a handful of fools, but this…

She would need help for this.

Even as she thought it, she noticed a slight movement at the other end of the hall.

As she watched, one of the grey wardens that Herald Finley so adored stumbled into the light, a tankard in one hand. He swayed a little as he looked around before slurring, “Is this a party?”

One of the mages closer to Vivienne’s corner of the room leaned to another. “Is he really drunk or is he trying to throw us off?”

The other shrugged. “Does anyone _actually_ believe that drunkards just wander into this sort of thing?”

Fire and frost came to life at their fingertips, but before either could cast, Vivienne darted out of the hall and into the room. With a flick of her wrist, her staff slipped out of her sleeve and returned to its regular size. As it did so, she summoned a spirit blade and shoved it through the fire mage’s back. As the ice mage turned, surprised, she withdrew her sword and sliced across his throat.

No sooner had she made her move, Warden Alistair was flipping one of the Venatori into another and pulling another in front of him to get hit in the face with a fireball that had been aimed at the warden. Warden Alistair finished off the screaming mage and then took out one of the Venatori as they stumbled to their feet.

As Vivienne moved to meet him in the middle and help cover him in the fight, taking out another fool who was too slow to act quickly, lightning cracked down on another of the Venatori.

Solas stood on the side of the room that Warden Alistair had come from. She froze an idiot who tried to come up behind her and smashed him to pieces with her staff.

How had they found out about this little gathering? Was the mysterious messenger giving them hints as well?

And even then, how had they been able to tail the mages getting down here. She hadn’t seen them.

Irksome as it was, she froze another mage and then impaled yet another with her spirit blade. As she smashed the first, she caught a glimpse of a young blonde boy with daggers taking out another of the mages.

How many people were here?

Good as it was to even the odds, she found herself oddly disappointed that so many had figured out the problem. Who would be here next, the grand enchanter?

So much for handling this quietly.

As she moved toward another mage, casting frantically to try to shield themselves, Warden Alistair slammed into them shield first, shoving them back into the wall and then gutting them.

There were cries to retreat mixing with the din of the fight, and then receding footfalls.

Vivienne managed to catch one with frost shards before he could get far down the hall, only to have Solas moving ahead of her, heading to the hall. He paused just long enough to say, “We’ll go after them! You two stay here to make sure no one else comes!”

And then he was gone.

The gall that he would order her to do anything aside, it did make sense to see if this was all of their traitors.

She looked around, taking in casualties.

At a count, there were nineteen dead, five of which were Venatori.

Most, but not all.

“Seven’s still a bit much for one mage, don’t you think?” Warden Alistair asked, cleaning his blade as he stepped over a body to meet Vivienne.

She appraised him carefully. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Warden Blackwall—that man was hiding something. While this warden no doubt had his secrets as well—all of the Order had secrets, after all—they didn’t weigh him down the same as Warden Blackwall’s did.

It was hard to explain, but it made her trust Warden Blackwall all the less.

“I believe took that boy with him,” Vivienne replied, though seven to two odds weren’t particularly good, either.

“What boy?”

Vivienne sighed, “Come now, warden dear. Don’t they teach you to be aware of your surroundings? There was a blonde boy with daggers here…” The thought that he could have fallen struck her, though a quick appraisal of the dead proved that he was not among them.

“I don’t…remember a boy.” Warden Alistair reached up to rub his temple, frowning.

Even as he spoke, Vivienne felt a faint tug at the back of her mind. A spell. The second she noticed it, it was gone.

Narrowing her eyes, she looked after Solas. Solas had said ‘we’, she was sure of that. So what was trying to make her forget that the boy had been there? Shrinking her staff again, she motioned to the hall. She would worry about that after they’d caught the remaining traitors.

“Shall we, darling?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	77. Merging Paths

There was something odd about traveling with an ancient golem that couldn’t be controlled. The old stories always said that they were subservient stone creatures, unable to so much as lift a finger without permission.

Shale was nothing like the stories. They were more like something Varric would put in one of his series in a drunken bout of brilliance, cackling madly all the while, only to wake up and realize that what he’d thought was so brilliant was too far from believable to work.

And yet…there they were.

Shale could be eerily quiet, and it was somewhat unnerving that no matter what time he woke up, the creature was already awake, glowing eyes peering at him like he had some sort of beacon on his back.

There was a lot more here than met the eye, and yet Shale was not particularly willing to disclose anything to them.

“It is a nosey little fleshling, isn’t it? Perhaps it should be more concerned with all the things that could squish it flat if it stays so distracted. I will not be the one to scrape it off the floor when its little body is a puddle.” Shale had stopped a second to eye Varric before adding, “I may help it get there, though.”

“No squishing Varric, if you don’t mind,” Hawke had replied, smiling and patting Varric’s head. “Don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s the best friend I’ve got.”

That had quieted Shale, who had looked over their little traveling group before simply turning and continuing along their path.

Varric wasn’t sure why, but whenever the conversation turned to friends or friendship, the giant stone creature’s sass would abandon them and they would simply resume their march.

While Varric was dying to know why, he also valued his form being anything other than ‘fleshy paste’. Who could appreciate his chest hair on that? …In that?

Ugh.

And so, instead he kept his questions to himself and tried not to worry that allying with Shale might not have been their best idea.

Their group were near the entrance to Skyhold’s valley when things began to…

That his writer’s mind went to ‘get weird’ was appalling, especially since things hadn’t stopped being weird since the sky had opened up.

And yet…

Late as it was, the promise of a warm bed had given the lot of them the strength to keep going. A few more hours and they’d be back to that old castle, to the beds they’d claimed and the fires and ale and…

And even as Varric realized he probably had a stack of letters about as tall as he was waiting for him, someone came running out of the darkness toward them. They were bloody and panicked and poorly dressed for the cold.

Varric’s mind immediately went to an attack on Skyhold, and his stomach plummeted, Bianca already in hand. With the advisors and Stardust away—they were still gone, he assumed—it would be chaos.

He stumbled to a stop in front of them, madness in his eyes. “You have to help! There’s a wolf! It’s going to kill me!”

Even as Rivaini told the man to calm down and start from the beginning, Shale simply reached out and caught him by his throat, lifting him into the air so that his feet kicked wildly as his fingers scraped against the stone encompassing their throat.

“Put him down!” Hawke cried out.

“It speaks like the ones who work with the red.” Shale seemed to hesitate, however, glancing at the rest of them as though to make sure they weren’t going to claim this man as one of their own people. “It is Tevinter.”

There was a soft ‘shnng’ as weapons were drawn, though Hawke shouldered his, holding his free hand out to Shale. “Let’s talk to him before you crush is windpipe, yes?”

Shale let out what could have been a growl or a groan, before tossing the man into the air and catching him by his shirt instead of his throat. The man wailed in terror and fire sprouted at his fingertips.

Shale shook him like a rag doll. “None of that if it wants me to humor its fellow fleshlings.”

Rivaini moved to join Hawke and then eyed the man. “Who are you?”

“If we don’t run, the wolf—”

He was mid-sentence when lightning hit him, shooting through him and crackling ineffectively against Shale’s arm. The golem muttered something under their breath before dropping the man, leaving him to twitch and convulse as the lightning took its toll.

Even as Varric whipped his weapon up, peering into the night to see who had attacked, Chuckles came loping out of the shadows, staff in hand.

He gave them a simple nod, stopping in front of the man he’d electrocuted, and then nodding again when he was sure the Tevinter was dead. “Your timing is quite fortuitous. I feared he might escape.”

Varric lowered Bianca slowly. “You…what happened?”

“The Venatori infiltrated our forces, and when we learned of them, they foolishly tried to summon demons to take the castle. I doubt there are many left, but you’re welcome to search with me.” He turned back toward Skyhold, motioning.

“We’re using wolves now?” Hawke asked as he stepped around the body. When Chuckles gave him a puzzled look, he pointed at the man. “He was going on about a wolf chasing him?”

“Maybe we’re looking at the wolf,” Rivaini teased, sheathing her daggers on her hips.

Chuckles allowed himself a polite smile before simply shrugging. “If there are any wolves out here, I’ve not seen them.”

Varric sighed, finally slinging Bianca over his shoulder as well. He was too tired to cart her around when there wasn’t imminent danger. “Maybe it was a code? We can see if any others used it during the attack.”

“If you’d like,” Chuckles replied, already leading the way back. “However, I feel you will find it nothing more than the ramblings of a half dead madman.”

Shale let out a low hum at that, which caught Chuckles’ attention and for the first time he seemed to truly notice the golem. How he’d missed them before was beyond Varric, but he had to admit he sometimes got tunnel vision during fights himself.

He looked up at Shale, appraising them carefully, and then looked at Varric. “Family heirloom.”

As Varric shook his head quickly, Shale let out a low grumble. “It is as stupid as it is rude.”

It was hard to see in the darkness, but Varric was pretty sure Solas looked surprised.

“It should be careful where it flings its magic,” Shale muttered, stomping forward through the snow and making far more noise than necessary.

Maker, but that giant rock could move so quietly when they wanted to. Varric wouldn’t have thought a ten-foot-tall walking wall could be so stealthy.

Well, not when it was angry, but still.

“My apologies,” Chuckles offered, matching pace with Shale. “In the dark, I wasn’t sure what he’d stumbled into.”

Shale growled, but seemed to accept the apology. Varric based this, of course, on the fact that the golem didn’t threaten to turn anyone into paste or broken bits.

To think that was the current standard for pleasantries in the group…

Barkington usually trotted along Hawke’s side, but instead took up a place ahead of Hawke, seemingly intent to stay between him and Chuckles.

Chuckles, in turn, glanced back at the mabari but once, frown deep in place.

That was…weird. Barkington was one of the friendliest critters when it came to allies, and had a nose for anyone who didn’t belong. They’d been saved numerous times in Kirkwall by that dog seeing through liars before they could.

It was a little embarrassing, honestly, to get saved by a slobbering, noisy canine all the time, but Hawke loved it. Whenever Barkington came to the rescue, he’d cook the mabari a steak and make a formal dinner out of it. Daisy loved those dinners, as did most of them.

Blondie had been the only one who hadn’t seemed particularly thrilled to honor the mabari, though Varric sometimes wondered if that was because…

Varric dismissed that train of thoughts.

There was always a chance that Barkington was just being cautious because he hadn’t really met Chuckles yet. That sort of thing happened from time to time, too. The beast had been wary of Broody for a while, before becoming best friends. Hawke used to lament how his dog loved Broody more.

Memories of the past warmed Varric as they searched the valley for almost an hour, despite the protests from muscles that begged them to just go to the shelter of the castle.

Finally, a blonde boy that Varric was sure he’d seen somewhere before slipped up to Chuckles, whispering softly.

“We’ve managed to take care of all of them,” Chuckles announced, abruptly turning toward the castle and those heavenly lights that flickered at the end of the bridge, on either side of the gate.

However, as they drew close to the bridge, a voice called out for them to stop, and Varric very much wanted to turn around and shoot whoever it was for delaying them longer.

His mood lightened a bit when he saw that it was Alistair who had called to them, with The Iron Lady walking behind him, opting not to jog to the rest of them. That she could be so poised out here in the dead of night, walking as though she was stepping through a court, was impressive.

Alistair came to a stop just shy of the group, a greeting to Garrett dying on his lips as he noticed their golem. Before Varric could offer an explanation, Alistair’s lopsided grin was in place, attention focused on the newcomer. “Shale! It’s been too long.”

“Has it?” the golem asked, though there was…it wasn’t a softness…or even a fondness, but there was something to their voice that made it obvious that they knew Alistair.

Alistair looked the creature over, a hand resting lightly on one of Shale’s arms and then his face fell. “I heard about what happened to Wynne. I’m…”

Before Alistair could finish, Shale jerked their arm away and turned, as though they were going to head into the castle, though instead they just stood there.

Garrett glanced from one to the other. “What happened—”

“She’s dead,” Shale snapped, and their use of a pronoun other than ‘it’ was not lost on Varric. “As is the fate of all fleshbags.”

Suddenly a lot of the golem’s actions made sense, and Varric kicked himself for not figuring it out sooner.

“You brought us…a golem?” The Iron Lady’s voice interrupted the silence before it could take a proper hold.

Shale ignored her, instead leveling a gaze at Alistair. “It keeps brilliant company as usual, doesn’t it?”

 As Alistair laughed and made some comment about how Shale was still as pleasant as ever, Chuckles slipped past them and stepped over to The Iron Lady. “You didn’t stay?”

“Of course not, darling,” The Iron Lady replied, an icy smile in place. “I felt it unbecoming to leave you and that boy to fight against such odds by yourselves.”

Chuckles hesitated at that, expression shifting to neutral. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Stepping closer to the apostate, The Iron Lady whispered something too low for Varric to hear, though he caught the gist of it when Chuckle’s gave her a sharp glare before mellowing out and simply shrugging.

The day had been far too long—a budding routine that Varric very much wanted to get past—and finally, he hit Hawke on the arm and started shuffling toward the castle. Let everyone else catch up.

They needed their sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	78. Waking Up

It was good to be back in Skyhold.

Donovan had met with her after her group had returned to the castle, warning her that she would be far safer in the Wilds, instead of playing hero and with templars and nobility. He’d lectured her on how the world was never going to change, how there would always be people like King Cousland, who would make sure that mages would never be free.

When she’d tried to explain she couldn’t just leave, Donovan had given her his usual scowl and then handed her a several folded papers.

King Cousland’s documents on her.

They were written by Ser Caudry, and she’d remembered feeling a small bubble of relief. He would never write anything wicked about her.

However, while he hadn’t painted her as some monster, she had been disappointed at how dry his words were. She knew he was capable of such amazing stories, and so to read something that stated the facts as concisely as possible had been…weird.

After all, Varric’s reports were always fantastical—and normally exaggerated.

In this, Ser Caudry sounded like every other templar.

It was a simple documentation of when he’d found her in the woods after putting a stop to her parents’ killing spree. He talked of the discoloration in her eyes and how traumatized she was. He guessed at her age—she’d heard them talk about that before, but this had an actual date to put things in perspective—and said that she might not be capable of being rehabilitated so that she could function in society.

He was asking his superiors what he should do with her.

He presented that there was a ‘very real possibility of possession’, which hurt to read, though she knew that he’d dismissed that during their years together.

Still, that he had taken one look at her and suspected a monster…

Maybe he’d just said that so that they could have a reason to keep her with them.

“It’s fireproof, and I couldn’t tear it,” Donovan had said, interrupting her musings.

“Enchanted?”

“Likely. I’d take it with me back to the Wilds, but I’ve a feeling you’d rather keep it with you instead.”

His guess had been true enough. If something happened to him in the Wilds, whoever had caught him would be able to get ahold of her secrets. It would be better to hide it somewhere where she could check on it regularly, to make sure it was still there.

She’d almost asked him if he’d read it, but seeing as he looked at her the same as he always had, she dismissed it. He’d never been a curious sort.

And so she had taken it back to Skyhold, paranoid the whole way whenever someone drew close, more so because the king didn’t mention the document being missing before they left. She’d wanted to talk to Cullen about it, but he’d been so distraught the night she went to him, and then Josephine had hounded her to go over what had happened and how well she’d done and what she could do to improve dealing with nobles.

They’d reached the castle in the dead of night, and Finley’s first priority had been to slip away from her advisors and find a good hiding place for her past.

Truly, things were going well. The past was safely hidden and they’d secured the aid of their first real country ally. That had to be good for something.

Josephine was optimistic that the Free Marches would reach out next, and possibly Nevarra. From what they could tell, the rifts hadn’t reached Antiva, Rivain, or the Anderfels. Whether there were any in Tevinter remained to be seen.

However, it felt…quantifiable.

There were only so many places she would have to go, and then she would be free to disappear back into her Wilds, guilt free.

Even as she thought it, she heard Cullen’s voice mumble something she couldn’t quite make out. As he spoke, his arm tightened around her and she felt his breath on the back of her shoulder. Turning carefully under his arm, she found him still asleep. When she snuggled up closer to him, his brow furrowed, and he said something else that she couldn’t make out.

“Hmm?”

Her voice was a soft hum, and he seemed to hear her, though he didn’t wake up. Instead, he moved his head so that his forehead touched hers, and mumbled slightly louder. None of it made sense, and she couldn’t help but bite her lip to stop from laughing.

She’d heard about people talking in their sleep, but she’d never met anyone who did it before.

She nudged her nose against his, freeing her arm and reaching up to play with a few stray curls as Cullen kept mumbling.

When they’d gotten in, he’d stayed up to make sure things were getting done and everyone was settling in before coming up to his room.

She’d meant to wait up for him, but had fallen asleep on his bed—after hiding that wretched report, of course. Finley had woken up briefly when he’d slipped the sheets over her and laid beside her, arm draped over her. It had been a long time since she’d just slept with someone like this. There was an intimacy that made her heart flutter. She’d fallen back asleep to the feel of his lips pressed to her shoulder and the soft sounds of his breathing.

Her fingers trailed along the side of his face from his hair to his chin and then down his chest. Since that night in Denerim, where he’d broken down crying, there had been something different about him.

Something different between them.

She couldn’t put words to it, didn’t want to. If she did, she knew she’d have to cut this off before it could go too far, and she wasn’t ready to do that just yet.

“Finley…”

She blinked out of her thoughts and looked back up at Cullen to see that he was still asleep, still mumbling.

There was no harm in taking comfort in another’s presence for a little while, so long as she didn’t get too attached.

She could feel the world slipping away as sleep drew her in in a way that was so rare for her.

“Finley.”

“Hmm?” She lazily pressed a kiss against Cullen’s nose, smiling at how he said her name in his sleep.

“Finley.”

This time she paused. Cullen had been mid-mumble when her name was called, and as she woke up again, she came to a rather unsettling realization.

That wasn’t Cullen’s voice calling her.

Opening one eye slowly, she froze, breath sucked in sharply, to see someone leaning over Cullen to stare at her. Even as she readied a spell, hands came up in surrender, and she finally recognized those blue, blue eyes.

“I need to warn you.”

His voice was low and pleading.

Glancing at Cullen to make sure he was still asleep, Finley sighed. Moving carefully, she untangled herself from him. The fact that he needed his rest aside, she had a feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate waking up to see a spirit right next to him.

When she had tugged the sheets up around Cullen to keep him warm, she finally turned to Cole, who had come around to the far side of the bed to meet with her.

He started in on his usual unnerving ramblings, but Finley simply held a finger to her lips and then pointed to the ladder. “Down.”

Cole simply disappeared, and she grudgingly buttoned up her shirt again and then headed down the ladder herself. The spirit was waiting for her in the commander’s office, though she ushered him outside and to the entrance of the rotunda. The shadows there would give them plenty of cover from any wandering gazes of the guards.

“What is it?”

“Lady Vivienne is angry with me,” Cole whispered, catching on that she didn’t want anyone to hear them.

Finley stared at him, the wheels in her head starting off slowly and then picking up speed. “You showed yourself to her?”

“She didn’t forget.”

Closing her eyes, Finley leaned back against the archway behind her and covered her face with her hands. “Did you talk to Solas?”

“He said to talk to you.”

Taking in a slow breath, Finley considered what to do. Talking Vivienne into just putting up with Cole seemed…unlikely. As did getting her to keep him a secret. A mage hiding a creature from the Fade was the last thing she wanted getting out, but then…a mage associating with a creature from the Fade wasn’t something she wanted people to know either.

“I’m sorry.”

Finley was alone when she looked up, and she felt a pang of guilt that Cole must have read her thoughts.

Despite the unease she still felt around him from time to time, she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. And to know that one was a dirty secret to be hidden away…

She’d never known the pain herself, but she’d had plenty of friends in the Wilds who had such stories. The loneliness that overcame them when they talked about their past dealings was something she never wanted someone else to feel.

“I’m sorry, too,” Finley whispered into the air. She stood there a moment to see if Cole would come back and then quietly slipped back into Cullen’s tower.

As she made the short trek, she considered her options. Vivienne would likely paint Cole in a bad light, which would paint her in a bad light. She needed to handle this carefully.

Cullen might know what to do. He was cautious when it came to magic, but he trusted her, didn’t he?

She trusted him. That brought the butterflies back, though they fluttered anxiously this time. Misplacing trust ended disastrously, and she’d been down that road before.

Absently, she reached to rub the scar on the back of her neck, standing at the base of the ladder.

Cullen was a good man. He was.

She could tell him, couldn’t she?

She shook her head as she made her way back to him, knelt on the bed and reached out to shake Cullen awake.

However, when she saw him laying there, asleep, her hand stilled.

He looked so peaceful and handsome, chest rising and falling slowly, hair a mess of wild curls. The tension was gone from him as he slept, and she didn’t want to take that from him.

She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and curl up with him. She could wait until morning for this, couldn’t she?

Her fingertips were tracing his jawline when she remembered how often scouts came in with unexpected news, and wondered if Vivienne would call for him in such a manner. He’d probably let her sleep through it, and then…

Then he’d find out from someone else about Cole.

Shaking his shoulder gently, she waited until he groaned and asked what time it was. “I need to tell you something.”

Cullen sat up slowly, taking her hand in his and kissing her palm, sleep still heavy in his eyes. “Is everything alright?”

A part of Finley’s mind told her to get near the ladder, to be ready to flee if things went awry. She shook it off and told herself not to be paranoid. Things would be alright.

This was Cullen.

Her hesitation had allowed him time to wake up more, attention focusing on her. He reached out to her, drawing her closer. Cupping her cheek in a large calloused hand, he peered at her carefully. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, it’s not exactly wrong…” Finley winced a little at her phrasing. She was just making things worse, wasn’t she? There was no reason to mince words. This was Cullen. “There’s a spirit in Skyhold—”

Immediately Cullen was out of bed. As he tugged on his trousers, he didn’t even look back at her. “Do you know where it is? _What_ it is?” 

“Well, his name is Cole—” She cut herself off this time as Cullen turned sharply to stare at her, incredulity plastered to his face. Somehow, his gaze felt more like a templar’s than it ever had. Finley fought back the urge to shudder.  “He’s a good spirit. He helps—”

Cullen’s expression shifted so quickly that it was hard to follow, though she could make out disbelief, disappointment, and then anger.

Her heart sank as he settled on that last emotion.

“There is a thing wandering these halls, and you’re friendly enough with it to give it a name?”

“He gave himself that name,” Finley said before she could stop herself. Then she quickly slipped off the bed and stepped toward Cullen. If she could just talk to him. He was such a reasonable sort.

The hardness that spread across his face made her stop in her tracks. Trying not to let her fear get the best of her, she stood a little straighter. “He helps people. He is a good spirit.”

Cullen opened his mouth to respond and then snapped it shut, enough that she thought she could hear the clack of his teeth hitting each other. Then he began to pace, gaze flitting toward her occasionally.

He looked like a wild animal.

A predator.

Finally, he stopped, some of that sharp anger fading away to weariness. “Of course this would happen. You’ve never been Harrowed.”

Finley had heard stories of Harrowing. Marcus said it happened when the Circles became too full. The templars would pick a few mages and feed them to demons to ‘thin the herd’.

While Finley wasn’t sure how much she believed Marcus’ story, she did know that it had something to do with facing demons.

But what did that have to do with anything?

As if to answer her unspoken question, Cullen abruptly breached the distance between them. He brushed a few of her wild locks back and cupped her face in his hands. “Demons will say whatever they can to make you think they are harmless.” His expression became earnest as he searched her face for something. “I _know_ this.”

Finley stared up at him, part of her understanding what was happening, though a larger part of her was too intent to deny it. Cullen was lecturing her on demons? That couldn’t be it. She had proved herself.

He trusted her.

He tugged her closer, palms warm against her cheeks. “Demons cannot be trusted. You yourself said you avoid them when you can, so I can understand getting thrown by—”

“Of course I do!” she snapped, the reality of it finally sinking in. “Everyone with _sense_ avoids demons! That doesn’t mean I don’t know what they’re capable of!”

“Then how can you think—”

Tears burned her eyes, though she managed to keep them from falling. He was supposed to trust her. “Cole hasn’t tried to pit anyone against anyone. There are no promises or attempts to win me over with ‘gifts’ or power. He just wants to help people. Ask Solas.”

“Another unharrowed mage,” Cullen murmured before something else clicked into place. His eyes narrowed, voice slightly lower when he spoke again. “Solas knows of this thing? He wasn’t with us in Denerim… How long has it been around?”

The butterflies from earlier had turned into a pit in her stomach. Maybe she could just laugh it off, say it was a joke.

Though, that wouldn’t stop Vivienne from telling Cullen later, would it?

“I met him in Therinfal Redoubt. He _helped_ fend off red templars and the envy demon. At great personal risk!”

Cullen’s mouth formed a thin line as he stared at her a hardness creeping into his expression. “Demons protect mages from other demons because _they_ want to possess their target, not let them slip from their grasp into another’s claws.”

“Cole doesn’t want to possess me!” Finley snapped. She had been careful around Cole, had watched him, had waited to see if he would start twisting things around, and he hadn’t. “He doesn’t need to possess anyone! He’s already here! On his own! No body needed!”

This was not good.

Demons and spirits always made things fall apart—

No. This wasn’t Cole’s fault. He just wanted to help.

Why didn’t Cullen trust her? She’d done everything right, everything they asked of her. She’d healed and helped and…

Cullen was staring at her, wide-eyed, jaw slack. His hands slipped away from her, arms falling to his sides. “There is a _thing_ here in Skyhold, roaming free…” he trailed off before taking a step back. “Therinfal Redoubt…that was…months ago. You’ve been colluding with this thing, _hiding_ it, for months!”

Finley bristled. “This is why! You think the templars would leave him be if they knew he was here? They’d kill him!”

“And why shouldn’t they?” Cullen cried out, exasperated. “You don’t know what its motivations are!”

“ _His_ name is _Cole_!”

“That _demon_ can’t be trusted!”

“Cole is as much a demon as I am a blood mage!”

Her words had been meant as a reassurance. Cole was a good sort, mistaken the same way she was. How many times had people decided she was a monster with a glance? Even Ser Caudry had had his doubts. How many templars had thought killing her would be better than ‘risking’ that she might be good?

She’d given Cole the benefit of the doubt, and he’d turned out to be good. He was. She was sure of it, wasn’t she?

She peered up at Cullen, searching him for some hint of damned sense. Of trust.

Her words had been intended to draw a parallel between herself and Cole.

And they did.

She saw the fear flicker in his eyes, his foot slide back, putting more space between them.

Why?

Her own words echoed in her head, and she felt sick.

Was it really easier for him to think of her as a monster than to think of Cole as a force of good?

She didn’t register bolting from his room or winding her way through the castle. All she could see was that terror in his eyes, the tension in his body, how he’d felt like a stranger standing in front of her, like someone had taken Cullen away and replaced him with…

A templar.

It wasn’t until she heard her name called gently that she came out of her daze. Despite the panic that struck her that she’d been careless enough to let someone come up on her without her noticing, she saw Solas. Her mind was too numb to be relieved or wary, and so instead she simply stared up at him.

“Finley, are you hurt?”

“I’m not a blood mage.” She hadn’t meant to say that, but the words simply slipped out, a plea more than anything.

Withdrawing an outstretched hand, Solas nodded. “I know.” He settled beside her, back against the wall. Looking around, still numb, she noted that she’d made her way into the bowels of Skyhold, into a small corner, not easily seen. How had he even found her?

Cole.

Her legs were already curled into herself, and she picked at a new tear in her pantlegs, barely able to see the bruise already forming beneath it. “How is Cole?”

“Fretting over you.”

“I upset him,” Finley whispered.

“He will be fine, though I’m sure he will be happy to know you are worried about him.”

“Cu—the commander knows about him.” She couldn’t say Cullen’s name.

“That is probably for the best.”

“He insists Cole is a demon and thinks we’re both fools because we trust him.”

Solas frowned.

Finley hesitated, and then slumped her shoulders. “And Vivienne knows, and Cole is scared.”

“We should speak with Leliana,” Solas said, pushing himself up to his feet, “before the commander, if possible.”

He offered her his hand, and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

She didn’t want to tell anyone else. Cullen was the one person she trusted the most here, and he’d… If all the advisors reacted the same, what would happen? Would they restrain her? Confine her? Make her tranquil?

Would they kill Cole?

And what of Solas?

All three of them would be safer with Cole a secret, but it was too late for that, wasn’t it?

Cullen _would_ tell the others, no matter what. And she doubted she wanted to hear his version of what was happening.

Solas was right.

“Get Cole and meet me in the war room?”

“Of course, inquisitor.”

She wasn’t sure if the title was supposed to reassure her, to remind her that she was the one in charge here, but it didn’t. Instead, she just felt empty as she hurried through the halls. After all, ‘inquisitor’ was nothing more than a title, and those could be revoked.

As she walked into the main hall, someone called out to her. She didn’t look back. What she was doing now was hard enough and she couldn’t handle anything else. She didn’t want to greet someone or listen to a problem or…

Dorian caught up with her, nonetheless, somewhat disheveled from what she could see from the corner of her eye. She didn’t look at him. If she stopped, she would run, and that would just make her look guilty. The templars would be after her in a breath.

Dorian matched her pace, muttering something about no rest for the wicked. “What’s going on? I just got in in time to hear the commander ordering people to gather for an emergency meeting. Is everything alright?”

Bull easily matched their pace on her other side.

The Chargers hadn’t come back with the rest of the inquisition’s party in Denerim, saying they had to pick up some strays, and while Finley had noticed that Krem was missing, she hadn’t realized that Dorian had been with them, as well. After how things went, it was probably for the best that neither Tevinter made an appearance in front of the king.

Finley’s stomach clenched. While she didn’t want to talk about it, they already knew enough that it wouldn’t look good to keep secrets. “The commander has called my judgment into question.”

Dorian scoffed. “Of course he did. The pretty ones are always a little daft, aren’t they? It was about magic, wasn’t it? I’ve heard he’s not fond of it.”

“We’ve got your back,” Bull reassured.

Finley didn’t answer. She’d _thought_ Cullen would, too. How many of the people she’d grown close to over the last few months would turn on her now?

How many would later, when she said the wrong thing, trusted someone they felt she shouldn’t?

She felt sick to her stomach.

She turned the corner to head to the war room and saw Cullen already there. He was arguing with someone, that beautiful face of his twisted with anger as his voice echoed down the hall that he wanted them to get out and let the advisors handle things.

As she drew closer, she recognized the voice.

Warden Alistair?

How big of an audience were they going to have? She tried to remember where the windows were in the war room, and how she could get out of the castle if she needed to. She was no Avvar, but she could scale a wall in an emergency.

How was this happening? Just a short while ago, she’d been so…happy.

A fool’s emotion.

After everything, she should have known better. How many times had things gone awry? How many people had betrayed her or abandoned her or died on her? Letting one’s happiness come from another person was how one got stabbed in the back.

She stopped just shy of the doorway, her instincts telling her to run _now_ , before they could corner her somewhere. After all, it was never good to move toward an angry templar, and Cullen was clearly furious.

“I can go, if you want.”

The words were soft and soothing. A spirit’s spell. Cole stood beside the door with Solas, wringing his hands as he peered at her. There were a few queries from behind her as to who he was, but she ignored them; she’d be answering that question soon enough.

She held her hand out to Cole. He blinked owlishly at her and then gave her a small smile, taking her hand.

She led him into the war room. As they entered, it fell silent, and she realized that there had been more than just Cullen’s argument going on already. Aside from him and Alistair, Leliana, Cassandra, Josephine, and Vivienne were already there, surrounding the wartable.

Footsteps filed in behind her, and she swallowed her fears. She could get out of here if she needed, and aside from Cullen’s gaze, she couldn’t feel any templars in the immediate vicinity.

She could get away, but what of the others? Of Solas and Cole?

There was a reason people in the Wilds lived solitary lives. It was safer that way.

There was no going back now, however, and so she resolved herself to face her fate.

Letting Cole’s hand go, she motioned to him. “This is Cole. He’s a spirit, a good one. He wanted to help, so I let him join us.” She hesitated before nodding, trying to look more confident than she felt. “If nothing else, he has helped _me_ quite a bit.”

“And,” Solas added, stepping up on Cole’s other side, “he helped unravel a Venatori plot here in Skyhold, alerting myself and Lady Vivienne. I—.”

“Anyone could claim credit for that, darling,” Vivienne stated, an icy smile in place. “I never saw who sent me those notes.”

“Don’t trust, don’t hurt, don’t let it see weakness—” Cole cut himself off and picked at his sleeve. “I didn’t think it would help if you knew.”

Cullen let out an incredulous bark of a laugh, face dark, anger barely contained. “Look at the damned thing! It’s mimicking Finley’s mannerisms!” He looked at her, some of that anger shifting. “It’s _trying_ to put you at ease.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed. “It helps.”

Even as Cullen scowled, hand going to his sword as if to cut down the spirit before Cole could say another word, Leliana stayed his blade, gaze on Cole. “You’re the blonde boy who’s been helping…since Haven.”

“Yes.”

Finley didn’t want to hear the accusations, the rage, the rallying behind Cullen and Vivienne’s anger.

She wanted to throw up.

Leliana smiled. “I have heard many reports about the good you’ve done.”

The world felt like it ground to a halt.

Cole beamed.

When Cullen tried to argue, a shuffling from the corner caught Finley’s attention, and her heart nearly stopped.

She missed people? How had she missed people? She always made sure she knew how many were surrounding her.

Rather than templars, however, Varric stepped up to the table. Garrett and Isabela leaned against the wall near the window she’d settled on bolting through if it came to that.

Miserably, she considered which would be her second-best option.

Varric held up a hand when Cullen tried to argue. “The kid helped me before, too.”

“It’s a little unsettling that he’s a…” Dorian trailed off and then shrugged, leaning against the table beside Finley. “He’s helped me, as well. Alerted me to the trap being laid in Denerim.”

“He helped me, too.”

Finley turned to see that one of the people who had come in behind her was Krem.

No, not just Krem. All of the Chargers.

Terrified as she was, she couldn’t help the small voice that whispered in her head that the people behind her…were on her side.

It didn’t feel real.

This was a trick, surely.

No one sided with mages and spirits over templars.

Krem went on to tell of how Cole had come to him during the renovations, stopping him just short of where a rotted part of the ceiling in the tavern fell. As soon as he was done, Dalish spoke out, and then the rest of the Chargers in turn. Even Grim said, “Good one, that.”

A small bit of hope welled up inside of her.

She wasn’t sure if that was more terrifying or less terrifying that Cullen’s reaction.

After all, hope could be such a wicked lie.

Garrett sauntered over, and leaned on the edge of the wartable, near Varric. “How is this even an argument? He’s clearly what she said: here to help.” As a round of agreements went up, Cullen scowled at Garrett.

“This is not the time for your rabble-rousing—”

“Funny. I don’t see any rabble,” Alistair chimed in.

Cullen gave the warden a scathing glare, though it was Josephine who broke the silence.

“Cole helped me with my office.” She waited for the room to quiet before motioning down the hall. “I couldn’t reach to put up some of my tapestries and paintings, and I didn’t want to call someone away from a more important task. This boy came in and helped me when I was about to give up.”

Finley was at a loss for words.

That everyone would come together like this…that they would be willing to give Cole a chance…and not because he had some necessity stuck to his hand. They were genuinely willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

They were willing to trust him…and her.

“So we’re to just let that…creature have free reign of the castle?” Vivienne asked, disapproval dripping from her voice. “My dear, be reasonable.”

“Cole _helps_ ,” Finley asserted. There was a little, tiny part of her that whispered that if she was wrong, she’d be putting everyone in danger, but it was too late for her to change her mind now. She’d made her stand and had her backing.

Even if it wasn’t the backing she wanted.

Cullen’s gaze was cold and hard. “That creature is not a ‘boy’.”

She made a point not to look at him as she straightened up and put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Cole will stay, and he has permission to help people as he’s done. Anything on a larger scale will be run by myself and my advisors before being implemented.”

“Why do people always forget him?” Again, Cullen was the one to protest, though his voice had a desperate edge to it now, like he knew he’d been beaten, but couldn’t stop fighting.

“I can control it sometimes,” Cole offered, perking up a bit. “I’ve…been working on that. Controlling it. I will try to help you remember me.”

“How do we know he’s not making us _forget_ the bad things he’s done?”

“Maferath’s dusty balls, Cullen!” Garrett snapped, making Finley jump. “Get off it! The mages here have more than proved themselves, and _they_ say he can be trusted!”

“We can’t know its real intentions!”

Cole held up a hand, fingers half curled save for his index. “I don’t need to possess anyone—”

“Cullen,” Cassandra finally spoke up, stepping up beside the commander. “We will notify the captains and lieutenants to stay vigilant and keep an eye on him.”

Cullen looked at her, lost. “And when we prove he’s a demon too late? If we’re lenient now and people die because of it?”

“This isn’t Kinloch.” Alistair’s voice was soft, but the pure vitriol that filled Cullen’s glare as he recoiled from the statement made it seem like it had been a personal attack.

“I am well aware of _that_.”

“Are you?” Alistair asked.

Cullen fish mouthed, his face flushing with anger, hands clenched at his sides.

“Perhaps it would be best,” Josephine interjected, smiling to Cullen and then Finley and then Alistair, “to table this until tomorrow afternoon. We are all tired from our travels, and I can’t imagine this is conducive to debate.”

“What’s the point?” Cullen spat, throwing his hands up and turning his back on the room. “You’ve all made up your minds already, and it’s clear there’s no reasoning with you.”

The words were the type to be accompanied with the speaker storming out, and yet he didn’t. Instead, he waited as the others filed out, back to them all.

Finley hung back, noting the pointed frown Vivienne gave her as she strode out. When most of the others had left, she moved around the table toward Cullen. Alistair had mentioned Kinloch, and it made her wonder just what she was missing.

She knew that it had been taken over by demons, that he had suffered while he was there, but this… How was Cole anything like that? His anger didn’t make sense to her.

And more than that… _she_ didn’t want to be mad at _him_. She wanted a reason to dismiss his callousness, that look of terror when he stared at her…the way he’d stopped trusting her so abruptly.

She’d barely gotten close enough to reach out and touch him, when he turned toward her and took a sharp step back, surprised. He shook his head.

Her throat felt dry, but she pushed herself, watching him carefully. “Cullen—”

“I…can’t…,” he whispered, pain in his eyes as he turned away and stalked out of the room. The coldness in his tone rooted her feet to where she stood better than any frost spell ever could.

When the sounds of footsteps began to fade, Finley slumped down against the table, gaze wandering over the map without taking anything in.

How could she have been so wrong? How had she thought that Cullen could be an ally to her?

And how had she let herself get to the point that it hurt this much?

A hand rested on her shoulder, and she jerked her attention toward the owner, that little bubble of hope swelling.

And then breaking.

It wasn’t Cullen.

Of course it wasn’t Cullen.

As she looked back down, Garrett squeezed her shoulder gently. “Don’t take it personally. He’s always been a prick. Especially toward mages.” When Finley didn’t reply, Garrett let his hand fall away. “The way he was with you, I thought he might’ve changed, but…he doesn’t like a mage unless there properly leashed. It has nothing to do with you as a person.”

“Doesn’t it?” Finley whispered.

A hush settled over them before Garrett finally nudged her with his elbow. “Hey, want to meet a golem?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Ya'll are great <3


	79. Chapter 79

Finley had thought that Garrett was joking when he’d mentioned a golem in Skyhold. She knew that such things existed, had heard stories handed down and down and down until she was never sure how many of the facts were accurate and how much had been tacked on over the tellings. Giants of stone that towered over all other creatures. Beings that could fell a tree with a single blow. There’d been a few stories about magical ones too, but she wasn’t sure how that would work.

After all, dwarves didn’t have magic. And they were the ones who _made_ the golems, weren’t they?

However, she’d known that they were a thing and that they were related to dwarves, and when Garrett told her he’d met one, she’d simply taken in a slow breath and then told him she’d talk to him in the morning.

She wasn’t sure why she’d offered him that much. She didn’t like him at all—between killing Ser Barnebus and being an annoying prat and saying those things about Cullen…

Things that seemed a bit too true.

Well, she wasn’t sure what it was that made her offer him some of her time, but she did.

She’d half expected him to come collect the second that she woke up and came out of hiding—she’d opted to sleep in the rafters above the kitchen, feeling it would be safe enough from prying eyes.

All while she dressed and haphazardly redid her braid, she’d expected a knock on the door, followed by incessant chattering. She’d actually taken to musing over whether she might be able to pull off her own version of Donovan’s polymorphism spell when the knock finally came.

At this point, the sun was already beginning to bathe the valley and castle in light, and as Finley went to the door, she half wondered if perhaps it was one of her advisors who had come for her rather than Garrett—with the whole Denerim matter dealt with, she wasn’t sure if Josephine would want to continue etiquette training every morning or not. They might instead choose briefings or reports or…

Another knock sounded.

Solid and firm, it reminded her Cullen and the way he was always so sure of himself.

Maybe he’d had time to think things over and…

When she opened the door, Alistair gave her a short bow, smile in place.

She tried to smile back at him. After all, he was a warden, and the Hero of Ferelden. He deserved a proper greeting.

“I thought you could use the morning off,” Alistair said, as soon as she had shut her door behind her. With a grin he offered her his arm.

Finley blinked a few times, wondering if this might be some odd dream—it didn’t seem like the Fade—and then gingerly reached out and took his arm, not sure if she was actually supposed to or not.

However, as soon as she did, he began to lead her down the stairs.

“I heard Garrett last night, offering to introduce you to Shale.”

She barely heard his comment. She felt oddly embarrassed to be escorted down the stairs as she was. Part of her was convinced it was a trap and part of her was scolding herself for being so wary of a hero like Alistair. He’d been nothing but kind to her thus far. When she realized it was peering down at her, she tried to focus. “You mean the golem?”

“The one and only.” Alistair’s smile was back as he leaned a bit toward her. “They helped stop the Blight, you know.”

“Really?” A small part of her bubbled with the excitement at meeting another hero who had saved her Wilds, but even that fell short this morning. Kind as Alistair was, and exciting as it was to meet another hero, the morning was inexplicably bland.

She tried not to think about it.

Alistair was quick to recount different adventures with Shale, and how Dev had been fascinated to not only meet a golem, but one who had free will. She tried not to feel lonely when she saw how lovingly he looked when he talked about the Warden-commander.

As they talked, he led her through the courtyards, down toward the gates.

When she saw the golem, Finley stopped in her tracks. The stories did not do the creature justice, and it took a nudge from Alistair to start walking again.

As they approached, the golem—Shale turned toward them, glowing eyes registering Alistair first and then turning to Finley.

Despite the stiff stone of their face, she could feel the creature judging her.

After a moment’s appraisal, Shale looked at Alistair and motioned to Finley. “It is very small to lead an army, though not as small as our commander, I suppose.”

Finley blinked. If it were any other day, she might not have been bothered so much by Shale’s comment, but today she couldn’t help but feel slighted. Bristling a bit, she stood a little taller, not that that did much of anything next to the stone giant. “I don’t lead an army.”

“If the inquisition is not an army that will fight back the red, then I have no reason to be here.”

“We are fighting red templars,” Finley said quickly, feeling a little foolish. Alistair said Shale was here to help, so why was she being so abrasive? Her fingers twitched, hands already lifting to redo her braid. Remembering how Josephine had been trying to break her of that habit, she crossed her arms instead to keep herself from fidgeting so. “Commander Rutherford leads the army.”

“And it leads the commander.” Shale pointed a massive finger at Finley.

As she tried to think of how to respond to that, it occurred to her that she really was leading an army. At least for now.

People had sided with her instead of Cullen and he had…surrender wasn’t the right word, but it was all that came to mind.

He had given in.

Though she was rather certain that he would come back with more protests—he was a stubborn sort—at least for now, people _were_ listening to her.

She missed whatever it was that Shale said to Alistair during her revelation, but snapped out of her thoughts when a small bird tried to land on Shale’s shoulder. The golem’s hand moved quickly to smack the little creature, though it ended up catching Finley’s arm instead, as she launched herself upward and blocked the blow.

The bird flew off in a panic, and Finley cast a heal on her arm as she dropped back to the ground. Shale had eased up in the last second, but the force of a rock hitting her arm into another rock had caused some damage. As her spell numbed the pain and worked on mending cracked bones, she glared up at Shale. “What’s wrong with you?”

“With me? I should think there is something wrong with it, as it is so quick to volunteer to be made to paste.”

“You can’t hurt birds.”

The golem’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“They are small and sweet, and you will not hurt them while you’re here.” Finley crossed her arms again, her spell already fading the bruises before they could fully form. Of all the things a hero might do, she’d never imagined hurting a bird to be on the list, and she felt oddly betrayed that Alistair had brought her to meet this creature.

“They are pests.”

Finley could hear frantic cries of injured birds in her ears, and she shuddered at the sound, forcing her memories down. “If you think so, then get out.”

Alistair was the one to step in at that point, angling himself between the two so that he was facing Finley. “Shale can be a great help—”

“What good is help if they’re going to hurt innocent creatures?” Finley’s hands were on her hips. This had to be some kind of trick. A trap. Something. “The whole point of the inquisition is to protect, is it not? That is what I intend to do. I realize you may think that just applies to humans and elves and dwarves, but it doesn’t. There are a great many lives that people dismiss simply because they don’t speak or act or look like we do, but they are important none the less. Do you have any idea the problems the rifts have caused? The demons destroy entire environments and then the animals have to overcrowd another area that they’re not as suited for, all the while people are being driven into their territories and—”

“Make it stop,” Shale rumbled. “I will…” the creature’s annoyance was clear as they shifted their weight, stone limbs scraping against stone body, “make an _effort_ to give the winged-demons a chance to get away before retaliating. I promise no more.”

That anyone could refer to such gentle creatures as demons… Finley let out a low hiss. “You will take that back.”

Shale, however, merely cocked their head. “What does it see in those feathery monsters, I wonder?”

It took all of Finley’s self-control not to root Shale in place or set a tree after them. When she spoke, her voice was low. “They are not monsters.”   

“Shale is going to go with me,” Alistair interjected. As both golem and mage turned their attentions toward him, he gave Finley a reassuring smile that seemed a bit weaker than before. “I may have a lead as to where my fellow wardens have gone. Garrett and Isabela are coming with me…and Shale. We’re heading off to a desert, so the chances that there will be any birds harmed along the way are next to none.”

Finley narrowed her eyes at Alistair. “‘Next to none’?”

“No birds will be harmed on our adventures,” Alistair corrected himself.

At that, Shale let out a dramatic sigh. “This is absurd. Must I watch myself just because this flitting little thing wishes to defend such inconsiderate tormentors?”

Even as magic flickered to life around Finley’s fingertips, Alistair stepped fully between her and Shale. “Shale was immobile for a few years—”

Shale scoffed. “More than a few.”

“—and birds, well, they rested on our dear golem quite a bit and—”

“They had loose bowels,” Shale finished, glowing glower in place.

Finley relaxed a little, though she still glared back at the golem. “If you were so still, they likely didn’t know better. You can’t blame them.”

“I blame all of them.”

“We should gather our things,” Alistair said before Finley could cast a spell, patting Shale on the arm and then turning away. “It’s going to be a long trip.”

Finley turned away with him, appraising the golem one last time. She could hold her temper, if only for Alistair’s sake. He was friends—somehow—with that horrid golem, after all. “I’ll be watching you. If you hurt so much as a feather…”

She left her threat open-ended to allow for musings.

Well, and because she wasn’t sure how to threaten a golem. Shale was very large and very hard and…

Hopefully she wouldn’t need to figure out any type of retribution.

Alistair parted ways with her shortly after, offering her a quick wish for a good morning before disappearing around a corner. As she headed up the stairs, wondering what her next move would be while Alistair tried to hunt down the missing wardens, she heard her name called and stopped.

Again, she hoped it might be…

Mother Giselle hurried over to her. She should have recognized the voice, known it wouldn’t be _him_.

Perhaps that was for the best. She knew better than to get too attached to people, especially outside of her Wilds. This was just a harsh wake up call.

“Inquisitor, might I have a word?” Even as Finley bristled, wary for whatever might come—more arguments against Cole, more introductions to people who hated birds, more titles she didn’t want—the revered mother stopped in front of her, a practiced smile in place. “It’s about Altus Pavus…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading <3


	80. Fighting a Repeated History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor (mild?) gore, warning. Demon fuckery.

Cullen’s head hurt.

That in itself shouldn’t have been any more of a problem than usual, but somehow it had gotten worse after his falling out with Finley. The light hurt his eyes and his head pounded from the inside, as though his skull wanted to explode.

He’d had headaches before, and there had been plenty that had set him on edge or made him reel, but this…

Somehow it was compounded with every war meeting where Finley’s gaze stayed on the map while he spoke, every time he moved only for her to tense as though he might try to hurt her, every _little_ thing.

The fact that it was his fault didn’t help matters much. She’d tried to talk to him, twice. The first time, after everyone had decided to just accept that creature, Cole. And then she’d come to him a day or two after Alistair and Garrett had headed out. She’d been defensive from the start, and he should have…at least tried to talk to her, but he’d just…

Shut her down.

He’d been so _horrified_ by what was going on, of the obvious repeat of Kinloch—

No, not a repeat. This wasn’t the same.

But Maker help him, it _felt_ the same.

He’d been such a fool in Kinloch, letting his blind trust and optimism get the better of him, and people had died.

So many people had died.

Reese had.

The mere name coming to mind made his stomach churn, and he closed his eyes, desperate to think of anything else.

Anything at all.

…-…

_“Ser Cullen, you are the sweetest.”_

_The words sent a wave of embarrassment rushing to his cheeks as he abruptly stepped away from the table, turning to see Marrin Surana leaning against one of the nearest bookshelves, grin in place as he watched with utter satisfaction at the way Cullen blushed._

_“I, uh, it was just…it was so many books, and I thought—”_

_Even as Cullen attempted to save face—and failed spectacularly—Reese Amell reached out and put a hand on his. He couldn’t feel her fingers through his armor, but his skin tingled all the same. That only added a shade or two to his reddening cheeks and ears, though he was lucky that her attention was elsewhere, and she didn’t notice._

_“Enchanter Marrin, please don’t be mean to Ser Cullen,” her voice was like honey, “You know I have trouble carrying this many books with me.”_

_“You could always try carrying them one at a time,” Marrin replied, and then gave Cullen a stern look. “Don’t let her use you just because she’s got a pretty face.”_

_“She’s not!” Cullen assured, a bit too quickly. “Using me, I mean. Your face is…” Cullen trailed off, feeling trapped by the accusation as he looked back at Reese._

_She let out a giggle at that, and butterflies fluttered madly against his ribcage. The Knight-Commander was going to be counseling him any day now, if he didn’t get his act together. Already a few of the other templars had warned him against being so friendly with their charges. If something were to go awry, he would hesitate and that could get a great many people killed._

_He knew their hearts were in the right place, but he couldn’t see that Apprentice Reese would ever fall to a demon’s thrall._

_They’d spoken about demons and the like—she’d approached him on his first shift, standing guard in the hall and watching as the mages meandered past, pretending they couldn’t see him. Not Reese though. She’d marched right up to him and asked his name and all manner of questions about where he was from._

_He’d been a bit thrown by it, really, but she was so friendly._

_And after all, he was there to be a protector, wasn’t he? It made sense that his charges feel safe around him._

_Even if some of the older templars did sneer and…_

_When he first reported here, he’d been surprised to find a bit of a rift between the Templars themselves. Some tried to be kind to the mages, and some were…_

_He hesitated to use the word cruel. He’d heard it thrown around—and if those rumors were true then some of the Templars were cruel indeed—but he hadn’t seen anything bad happen himself, and surely any unbecoming actions toward the mages wouldn’t be tolerated. Templars were supposed to protect mages and civilians, after all._

_Still, some of the looks the mages gave him—when they acknowledged him at all—were so…hateful._

_Actually being in a Circle was so different from training and the dissonance made him wonder just what he was missing._

_But there were plenty of friendly templars around to show him the ropes, and there was Reese._

_She liked to talk about figuring out spells that might help irrigate crops more easily or make work in the kitchen a breeze._

_She didn’t know much about cooking herself—there didn’t seem to be a class for the mages to learn to cook, which puzzled Cullen, seeing as he knew from training that mages who had proven themselves were allowed out of the Circles—but could remember the hassle her mother had gone through whenever she made dinner._

_Reese wanted to make self-cleaning pans, and Cullen had thought it more than a little ambitious, but had told her that if she could get it to work, it would certainly help a lot of people._

_She’d beamed at him when he said that, and it had been that smile that gave life to those damned butterflies in him every time he saw her now._

_Thus he’d been struggling with the all too real fact that he already fancied one of his charges._

_If Knight-Commander Greagoir heard…_

_“Don’t you have your own work to do?” Reese asked Enchanter Marrin, interrupting the awkward silence that had stalled over them._

_Marrin’s lips twitched into a half smile as he sauntered passed the two of them, pausing to appraise Cullen with a curious look. “Such a harsh taskmistress, I think she should be wearing the armor, don’t you?”_

_Even as Cullen tried to think of something to say to that, Marrin strolled off, leaving Cullen more than a little embarrassed._

_“Don’t mind him,” Reese offered, patting his hand again and setting those butterflies into renewed flutters. “He’s just a bitter old man.”_

_“He can’t be more than twenty-five,” Cullen had objected, with a laugh. Even as Reese’s eyes glittered, like she might say more, he motioned over his shoulder. “I should, ah, get back. To work.”_

_With a knowing nod, Reese made a shooing motion. “Best go keep those old tapestries safe in the hall. We’ll give a shout if demons come pouring out of the Fade.”_

_Cullen laughed as he went back to his post._

…-…

Skyhold was quiet, and it seemed that his headaches were better for it. The pain had receded back to a dull thrum in the back of his head that he could ignore if he focused on his work, and the nausea had passed.

Surely this time it would be gone for good.

Wouldn’t it?

Withdrawal was wicked, but it…didn’t it ever end?

The thought that surely it _had_ to end at some point was one of the driving reasons he hadn’t fallen back to lyrium yet, though with each passing day, he was beginning to suspect that this would be with him the rest of his life.

Inquisitor Finley had headed off to speak with a few members of the Orlesian Court. Nothing official, but there were some who were growing a bit desperate. Between the Civil War and the rifts, they were having trouble maintaining their coffers, and their standing was precarious enough already.

Further, with the civil war, these lesser nobles were in enough need of assistance that they were willing to look outside the country—quietly of course.

Cullen didn’t see why they didn’t just send the inquisitor in to Orlais’ countryside without permission. It wasn’t like either side of the war had much control.

More than that, though, he wanted to talk to Finley. It had been three weeks, and he was sure that he had thought enough about what he wanted to say, had tempered himself enough that he could listen, that they could finally have the conversation they needed to have.

Of course he didn’t think she was a blood mage.

If only she wasn’t avoiding him.

Or maybe it was in his head. As soon as she came back from missions, she was gone again, swapping companions for others who weren’t worn to the bone, though Dorian seemed to go with her everywhere.

Word was that he was quite the flirt, too, and it made Cullen scowl every time he thought of it.

Finley was _his_.

Or…she had been.

Maybe he didn’t have a right to feel so…possessive.

No maybes about it. He’d pushed her away, if she fell into another’s arms, that was his fault.

But did she have to fall for a Tevinter mage?

Finley might not be a blood mage, but what if Dorian was? What if she trusted him and…

…-…

_Something was wrong._

_Reese stood beside him, hands clasped over her heart as she glanced between Cullen and the other templar she’d called for help._

_His fellow templar was tired and ready to go to sleep for the night, but Cullen had convinced him to come along. He’d never seen Reese this terrified before._

_“You said you heard chanting?” Ser Emry looked like he wanted to point out that that alone wasn’t much of deal, considering where they were._

_“Someone was crying, too,” Reese whispered, eyes ever ahead. “They asked them to stop, and I think he was hit.”_

_“It can’t hurt to look,” Cullen offered, giving Reese a reassuring nod before noting the eye roll Ser Emry sent his way._

_They could just see the doorway to the room Reese claimed to be housing whatever was going on, when it rather abruptly slammed open so hard that splinters flew through the air._

_What came out next was…_

_Cullen had seen drawings of abominations before, but to they did nothing to prepare him for the real thing. The twisted flesh, the bits of robe and the little details that reminded him that that_ thing _had been human at one point._

 _And he never would have expected it to move_ so _fast._

_He’d barely had time to swallow before the creature was conjuring flames. Ser Emry darted in front of him, shield raised to block the magefire. Before he could lower his shield, the abomination was upon them, slamming him into the wall and jabbing its fingers up under Ser Emry’s breastplate._

_He coughed up blood, a spell interrupt dying on his lips._

_Reese’s shriek brought him out of his stupor, and he lifted his blade and swung down hard as the abomination fixated on Ser Emry’s corpse._

_It sunk in with a sickening squelch._

_Maker, help him._

_He had to have struck the creature more than once, but the next thing he remembered, it was lying across the floor in a pool of its own blood and he could taste copper in his mouth._

_Two other templars had engaged with another abomination up ahead, and Cullen took a few steps back. He was a protector first and foremost._

_Turning, he looked at Reese. “You need to get downstairs.”_

_“Does she?”_

_Enchanter Marrin stood in the doorway of the nearest room. Even as he waited for an answer, he saw the abomination and the blood and his eyes widened._

_Reese hurried over to him. “Thank the Maker. It’s not safe up here!”_

_Cullen nodded to Enchanter Marrin as he looked back up. While the elf had an odd sense of humor, he’d come to respect him. He was incredibly talented, and even humored Cullen, answering questions that he had about magic in an attempt to understand it better. If he could leave Reese in anyone’s hands, it would be Marrin’s. “Enchanter, please take care of Apprentice Reese. I have to.”_

_He glanced back down the hall, only to freeze before he could take a step._

_Reese had gasped._

_Turning back, his mind blanked as Reese crumpled to the floor, blood trickling from her mouth…and where the dagger stuck out from her chest._

_Marrin looked up at Cullen, a satisfied smile in place. “What’s wrong? That’s one less thing for you to worry about, templar.”_

…-…

Cullen looked over the reports on his desk. More and more of the Orlesians were willing to turn a blind eye to any Inquisition dealings that might take place on their land. The letters didn’t come from nobility most of the time. Instead, it was mayors and sometimes a random farmer telling them that their help would be welcomed.

It would have to wait, though.

Inquisitor Finley had met up with Alistair and learned what had happened with the missing wardens.

Maker save them, but there was a demon army being formed in the Western Approach. Now Cullen and the others were going through their reports to see who had given them permission to travel through their lands to see what the most direct route would be to get an army out to the desert.

Cullen wanted to say to the void with it and just march out, but he could see the problem of doing so blindly. With the civil war going on, it wouldn’t do to look like they were coming in to join one of the sides, or just be a third force grasping for power.

This would need to be done carefully…

And quickly.

Maker knew how quickly demons could turn the tides.

…-…

_Cullen cringed into himself, his armor filthy with blood and grime. How long had he been trapped? He’d tried to stop Enchanter Ma—Surana. He’d managed to wound him, but then something had happened…_

_Not something._

_A deal._

_The bastard had struck a deal with a demon._

_And he’d used Reese’s blood…_

_It wasn’t right._

_Reese had been a good mage. One who never succumbed to the whispers of demons. That she still couldn’t have fallen to blood magic—even if it wasn’t hers—it wasn’t…_

_This was all wrong._

_“Cullen?”_

_Snapping his head up, Cullen stared past the shimmering wall of his prison._

_Reese knelt on the other side, appraising it with a look of haggard determination._

_“It can’t be.”_

_His words made her pause, and she looked at him, confusion shifting to relief. One hand went to her heart and she smiled. “He missed and Senior Enchanter Wynne found me. She’s a good healer. She patched me up. We’ve been looking for survivors.”_

_Cullen edged toward her. “Really?”_

_She gave him a gentle smile, “Really. I’ll have you out in no time.”_

_“Be careful,” Cullen warned, glancing around the room. Decomposing corpses littered the floor and there was blood and…something growing on the walls. “Surana is around here somewhere.”_

_“It’s okay.”_

_Her voice was weaker._

_Looking back at her, he sucked in a sharp breath. Her rounded cheeks were gaunt, eyes sunken. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth as she put her hand over her heart again. Blood seeped up from beneath her robe and ran down her arm. When she spoke, it dripped from her mouth._

_“What’s wrong?”_

_The voice was a rasp, her skin bearing distinct marks of decay._

_“No…”_

_Cullen jerked back, horrified as Reese crawled in after him, decomposing faster and faster, flesh falling away in strips as skeletal hands reached for him._

_“Am I not pretty anymore?”_

_He screwed his eyes shut as her corpse crawled into his lap._

_“Whose fault is that?” she whispered, and he could feel her ragged scraps of flesh brushing against his skin. “I thought you would protect me.”_

_With a shriek, Cullen flung his arms forward, only for them to flail helplessly through air._

_Opening his eyes, he found Reese was gone, and instead Surana sat outside of his prison, giggling madly. When he finally regained control of himself, he leaned forward, a sickening grin in place. “Oh, little templar. How did you think this would end for you?”_

…-…

Two months after Inquisitor Finley had told him she trusted that _thing_ , he was finally able to talk to her again. He tried not to think of how Reese had trusted Surana, of how good mages still fell to blood and demons, because they trusted too easily.

She’d been so sure that Cole was something good.

If Reese had been asked before the uprising in Kinloch Hold, she would have insisted Surana was one of the good ones. She’d been the reason he’d ever tried to be friendly with the elf.

And look where that had gotten them.

He tried not to think of it, did everything he could to hold in what he wanted to scream, that she needed to be more careful, that he couldn’t protect her if she put her trust in the wrong people.

Instead, he talked logistics and about the army he was leading.

For the first time in two months, she lifted her gaze from the maps between them and asked him questions, getting a feel for what was going to happen.

There was an emptiness in the look she gave him. No affection or awkwardness.

She didn’t fidget, either, and somehow that unnerved him more than anything.

He wanted to ask her how she’d been, how her journeys were treating her, if she was doing better with people.

From what he’d heard, she was, but he just…wanted to talk to her.

She rapped her knuckles against the wood of the makeshift table. “We reach the fortress tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Cullen echoed.

And with that, before he could say another word, she turned and headed off, calling out to Dorian and the others she’d been traveling with.

Cullen felt his heart sink as he watched her go, but instead closed his eyes.

He should have known by now that his infatuations never ended well.

But still…he couldn’t help but look after her again, only to see she’d already disappeared from view.

With a slow breath, he began to roll up their map and push back against the headache threatening to break loose. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it, so long as he could. It was all he _could_ do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3


	81. Fragile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's going up at the same time as chapter 82. Double update!

“I do believe our dear Commander wishes to speak with you,” Dorian drawled as they rode forward. Finley’s continuing ineptitude at riding horses had left her riding with others, and while she did enjoy talking to Dorian, he picked up on things a bit too well. “He’s been watching you with the look of a lost puppy.”

Finley bristled as she dared a glance the commander’s way to see that he was busy ordering his lieutenants to do something. Of course he wasn’t actually watching her.

Though, damn near everyone had made some implication that he wanted to approach her or talk to her in the last week, as they traveled toward Adamant Fortress.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to believe. She wanted to run up to him and wrap her arms around him, to crush him to her as best she could. She wanted to pretend that he hadn’t looked at her with that fear, that he…

“He made it quite clear that he’s not interested in anything I have to say.”

The words stung, even as she said them. She felt like she was reliving his betrayal. That fear in his eyes as he looked at her, so ready to believe that she could be something wicked in hiding. That standoffishness that he’d developed after, barely even looking at her when she tried to talk to him. And when he did…

There was a hardness there.

Worse than when they’d first met.

There was pain and anger and…

And she knew better than to trust a fucking templar.

Even if he wasn’t technically one anymore, even if his gaze was softer, he was still bound with those awful notions that seemed to be ingrained in every templar’s mind.

Magic bad.

When he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to talk to her—to look at her like he had before—she’d made a point to be scarce. It hurt too much to look up at him and see that distance, and so she put enough between them that it felt appropriate.

The days had been a blur since their falling out.

She’d met Dorian’s father and was coming to the conclusion that parents were simply not pleasant for anyone. None of her fellow apostates in the Wilds had ever spoken highly of theirs, and to see it repeated so often…

Why did people even have children?

The train of thought always led to worse moods, and Finley tried to cut it off.

Dorian had been so hurt by his father, and so she had dragged him with her back to Ferelden to clear rifts, and even into the edges of Orlais, to help keep his heartbreak at bay.

Or so she hoped.

It _seemed_ to work, for both of them.

Though, when the nights were long, it was hard not to think of what she’d lost when—no.

No thoughts like that.

She hadn’t lost anything. From the start she’d known her time with Cullen would be little more than a dalliance. She’d just let herself get too wrapped up in it all, in the closeness, the warmth of another person beside her.

Of Cullen beside her.

If only she could just pretend he wasn’t there.

What hurt more than any idle comments, any questions about their ‘fight’, was that every time someone said something about it, this pathetic little bubble of hope would well up inside of her, and Finley would find herself quietly glancing toward the Commander, just to see that he was always looking elsewhere.

Whatever the others thought they saw, it wasn’t longing gazes toward her.

That much, she was sure of.

And yet her dreams twirled toward tumbles she wanted to forget, warmth and safety she wished she didn’t know.

After all, what good did it do her now?

Despite a few more attempts at conversation with a few other subjects, Dorian finally gave up and let Finley stew in her mired emotions, allowing himself some playful banter with Varric instead. The dwarf was not particularly fond of riding on horses, either.

When they could finally see the Warden’s fortress, Finley felt a pit open in her stomach. She could feel the thinness of the Veil, feel the creatures on the other side, trying to push through. It reminded her of Kinloch Hold.

She shuddered.

The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere near a place like that, and yet…here she was.

It was decided that they would attack at night, after the winds had died down. The two moons would be sufficient lighting, and…

She didn’t keep track of all the details. Her part was to go in and convince the Wardens to lay down their weapons, to stop this madness—this demon army Alistair and Garrett had learned of.

That anyone would do something so _foolish_ as to summon an army of demons was…beyond stupid.

That the Grey Wardens would do so was even worse.

They were supposed to be heroes. They were supposed to be so much better, smarter, _more_ than this.

To see them digging in, ready to defend their insanity, made her wonder if perhaps all of her hopes and affections weren’t ill placed.

She’d always thought she was just terrible with romance, but now…

How many of her heroes simply weren’t?

The assault itself was horrifying. She’d heard again and again that there would be high casualties, but somehow it hadn’t sunk in. Like her surprise with the sheer number of people that could be at the Conclave and then throughout the world, like the intricacies of social interaction that still eluded her, this had been something beyond her grasp.

And now that she was faced with the reality of it, she was sick.

More than once a companion had to grab her arm and drag her away from a set of soldiers she’d focused on, trying desperately to ward them and make sure they would be fine on their own.

This was worse than the attack on Haven, namely because they were there by choice. _Her_ choice. It had been her word that had brought these people out here.

Out to die for her.

“Inquisitor?”

Tearing her gaze away from a mutilated body that had just been tossed over the ramparts, she stared up at Cullen, already cringing into herself. His hand rested on her shoulder, his brow pinched together with worry.

How did he always manage to sneak up on her so easily?

He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he set his jaw and fought back a shiver as a terror demon screeched overhead. When he spoke, his voice had that detached formality to it. “With the mark, you can stun the demons. If you can get to the ramparts and fight them back, our people can get a foothold.”

Finley nodded, a little too quickly, though she didn’t move.

Cullen leaned toward her, peering into her eyes with concern. “Remember to breathe. We wouldn’t be here if we couldn’t win.”

The gentleness in his words caught her off guard, and for just a second she was looking at the Cullen she’d grown so fond of.

He squeezed her shoulder and then turned away, barking orders to a few of the nearer soldiers, blade drawn and ready.

Without thinking, she cast a ward on him. He stilled at the touch of magic, though he paused to glance back at her and nod.

A little lost, she nodded back.

“Finley?” Alistair slipped up beside her, gaze lingering on Cullen a moment before he finally motioned toward the steps leading into the keep. “We need to move.”


	82. Demons, Demons Everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Demon fuckery and mind games.
> 
> This chapter's going up the same time as 81 :3

There were no windows that she could get to, slip out of. Still, Finley searched the upper reaches of the hall. She’d tried reaching the rafters, but she couldn’t find purchase on the walls. They were impossibly smooth, and even a running jump couldn’t get her close enough.

She’d tried, over and over.

Sometimes it felt like the world itself wasn’t quite _real_. Like it moved against her. The eaves moved away from her when she nearly reached them, and then, as she fell back, she would find one of a dear, dear few waiting for her.

Ser Caudry. Ser Neil. Ser Rodrin. Mathel. Aubrey. Ja’leese.

Cullen.

Every person she’d ever let her guard down around. Every person who’d used that lowered guard to stab her in the back.

It…

This wasn’t real. _They_ weren’t real.

Finley _knew_ that they were some illusion conjured by blood or demons or both, but she couldn’t figure out how to make them _stop_.

If she could just find someone else, someone to regroup with, to rely on.

Near as she could tell, she had to be in the lower reaches of Adamant Fortress, though the building materials were strange, imbued with magic. It was so familiar, and yet she couldn’t place it.

The halls here were more like caves now. She had to be going deeper down. How long until she ran into darkspawn? Where were the others? Was she the only one who’d fallen? The fortress had been collapsing and…

And it was a blur after that. She’d woken up to Mathel strangling her.

No. Not Mathel. A demon pretending to be him. He would have never hurt her like that.

Without thinking, she reached up to rub her neck.

“Did you really think you could get away?”

Cullen’s voice rang out behind her. The sound of greaves clicking against the rocky floor echoed toward her, the pace a saunter.

Without bothering to look back, she darted down a side passage. She needed to find somewhere to regroup, where these things couldn’t find her for just a little while.

Then she could make a plan. She could get control of the situation if she could just get _away_.

The new passageway she’d gone down turned and ended abruptly. Dark as it was, there was still an eerie, ambient green light, taunting her with the shadowed crevices of the walls around her.

Fuck.

She could hear those footfalls coming. Slow as they were, they were always gaining on her.

Slinking up to the furthest part of the wall from the turn, she hunched low and nocked her bow.

It wasn’t Cullen.

She knew that.

She’d killed a few of these illusions already—a new one appeared as soon as the old one fell, which was why she’d opted to run instead of waste her energy slaying creatures that looked like the ones she’d loved so completely.

The thought in and of itself caught her a little off guard. That whatever this was—a demon, likely—was using Cullen…

Did she…?

She shook it off as a figure stepped around the corner and fired.

A shield caught her arrow before it could pierce her target. As Cullen simply tossed the shield aside, Finley forgot that she needed to ready another arrow.

He was worse than the other illusions. It wasn’t just someone who had hurt her. He was…

His eyes were tainted red and red lyrium twisted out from under his armor. Red veins ran across his body, and one of his arms was twisted, little more than lyrium at this point.

A cruel smile played on his lips as he approached her, weapon made of red lyrium. “Like I would ever let a blood mage run the inquisition.”

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him, but the words still hurt. To hear them in his voice, to see him in this state…

It…hurt.

As he charged her, she dodged out of the way and caught him in a rooting spell. An arrow to the back of his neck made his form shift into shadows.

How many times had she killed her loved ones now?

How many times had she seen _him_ fall to red lyrium or demons or demonic possession or just…decide that she wasn’t someone who could be trusted.

Each time he died, the image stayed with her. Whatever was making these was far better at replicating those she knew than Envy had been.

The gasps for breath, the startled cries as he fell to the ground, before the illusion dispersed, it dug into her heart.

She didn’t want him to hurt, didn’t want it to be her fault.

Screwing her eyes shut, she pressed her palms against her eyes.

“It’s not him. It’s not him. You know it’s not him.”

“What’s the matter, love?”

Jerking back to the present, her heart sank as she stared at the latest conjured image. Cullen looked at her, half of his face missing from rot and signs of decay pocking the rest of his features. “Did you think we’d have a happily ever after? Did you think something like you could ever have a happily ever after?”

Finley smashed the vision in the face with her bow and then whirled away, running as fast as she could.

She had to get out.

Or just stop seeing these awful things.

She had to find a way—

Cullen slammed into her from nowhere, his shield hitting her hard and sending her crashing into the wall. She gasped as she felt jagged rocks dig into her ribs.

This place was a nightmare.

“I will not be fooled by some blood mage, parading around as a hero.”

Her side hurt. Rolling out of the way of another blow, she fired another arrow, killing the latest iteration of her general. Feeling her side, she shuddered as she drew her fingers back to see blood.

It always made her sick to see blood on her fingers. It felt like she was going to fall to blood magic somehow. Thinking of how Cole had helped her fight envy, she struggled not to think of anything personal, to blank her mind on empty places, places she’d wandered through without much interest, arbitrary trades and interactions.

Things that meant nothing.

Closing her eyes, she healed herself, and then reached to one of the bags on her hips. She hadn’t wanted to use any of her spells that required reagents. She hadn’t wanted to resort to spells like this. She knew the building was in a state of disrepair and damaging it more could easily bring it toppling down on her.

That said, she couldn’t keep running around like this.

She’d just have to risk that she could move faster than falling rocks.

Taking a few seeds from her pouch, she drew a few symbols on the ground quickly and then dropped the seeds in the center. Taking her bow, she slammed one end into the ground, channeling as much magic a she dared. The air crackled around her.

She hoped the wall would be thin enough for this to work.

The seeds burst into plants, oak and chesnut branches slamming into one of the walls, punching a way out.

Even that couldn’t be seen as much of a victory.

As the branches faded out, the wall was already repairing itself.

Finley flung herself through the disappearing hole, cursing when her hair caught in the mending wall. With a quick flick of a spell, she was free and running.

However, she barely made it a few feet before she stopped dead in her tracks.

This was not Adamant Fortress.

Dark green rocks stretched out as far as she could see in wiry, winding paths. Some hung suspended in the air, twirling lazily in the void around them.

For there was a void.

What she could see below, beyond, above—

Looking up, she paled when she saw the outline of an all too familiar city hanging in the sky a black silhouette against that infinite, empty space.

She’d known she was…somewhere with demons, somewhere she shouldn’t be, but this…

She was _in_ the Fade.

Physically.

Again.

As her stomach lurched, a sharp, explosive pain shot through her from just below that pit inside her. She brought her hand up slowly and looked down to see the end of a blade protruding from her abdomen.

She should have moved, should have cast, should have done something, but the whole of this was just too much. Instead, she simply stared down, watching her blood drip down from that hateful metal and stain down her shirt.

The blade withdrew as suddenly as it had hit her, and she stumbled forward, managing a healing spell without much thought. While it stopped the bleeding, she felt like most of her energy had bled out instead.

Still, she gripped her bow and raised it, intent on ending this newest illusion.

A soft sob escaped her lips, and Ser Caudry smirked, cleaning his blade as he stepped casually toward her. “I should have put you down when I found you in the woods.” He shook his head when Finley staggered backwards, trying to put distance between them. “How many people died for you? How many _are_ dying? Ser Neil, Mathel, Aubrey, your _mother_.” He motioned off vaguely. “All those soldiers you tricked into thinking you’re some miracle, when we both know what you are.” He spit on the ground. “A mistake.”

Raising her bow, she nocked an arrow, only to have to dodge backwards as another blade swung toward her.

One of her other templars stood there. Ser Neil’s throat was slit, his expression cold. His hair was matted and sweat clung to his skin, his pallor awful.

The way it had been when the templars had caught them when he’d tried to escape with her into the mountains to give her to the Avvar.

“And Finley?”

She cringed again, trying not to get distracted by the faces around her. They weren’t real. They weren’t…

Ser Rodrin walked over to lean on Ser Neil’s shoulder as Ser Caudry moved to join them. Her templars. Her heroes. Her first real family.

Ser Rodrin shook his head. “You wouldn’t let us call you that, but somehow it’s good enough for you now?”

“How much blood is on your hands?” Ser Caudry asked.

Managing a step back, Finley brought her bow up again, shooting Ser Neil first. Instantly, the other two charged. Whirling around, she started to run only to freeze in place as she found herself face to face with Mathel.

His eyes were black, and he bore injuries from the darkspawn he’d fought off. The Blight darkened his veins.

“Is running all you do? You sacrifice those around you just as clearly as if you _were_ a blood mage.”

Finley ducked out of the way, stumbling away from them.

She couldn’t deal with this many… Maybe she should have stayed in those damn halls and caves.

Even if she could fight this many on her own, knowing that she would have to watch them die... Not now, not again.

Would there be more like there had been before? She didn’t have the energy, emotional or otherwise, to keep up this fight.

A shield slammed into her, and she smacked into the wall she’d come through. A foot stomped down on her shoulder, holding her in place.

Finley gasped for breath, the weight of a plated boot pushing down further, grinding her into the dirt.

“You’re not real.”

Ser Caudry scoffed. Mathel leaned down, gripping her hair and jerking her head up. “Does it matter? You’re hardly real yourself. No name, no family, no nothing. You might as well not exist.”

“And yet she’s the one that makes it out, every time.” Ser Caudry’s voice held such resentment. Such hatred.

“I…saved Ser Caudry.”

“Did you?” The demon wearing his guise scoffed. “What do you think happened to him after you were gone? Do you think they let him stay in the Order? Your commander told you what happens to templars who are expelled. Letting him die would have been _far_ more merciful than what you sentenced him to.”  

“No…”

The things they were saying were nothing more than fears that had cropped up in her mind over the years. That Mathel would hate her, that Ser Caudry might have ended up with lyrium withdrawal. The demons were simply using her fears against her.

She _knew_ that. She knew that this wasn’t real, that it was a trick.

So how did they still have _so_ much power over her?

Clenching her fist, the mark crackled. The three around her fell back, stunned, though they didn’t loose their illusions. Finley managed to get back to her feet, looking around for her bow.

Mathel wouldn’t have blamed her for what he did. She hadn’t wanted him to. It had been his choice. She just needed to keep her mind blank, to stay detached, to—

“You are a curse on this world.” Ser Caudry caught her by the neck and hoisted her off the ground, lips pulled into a tight snarl. “You have a way with people. You make them into fools. You—”

Something swung into the side of his neck, interrupting his accusations. The form dispersed, and Finley hit the ground, hard. As she gasped for breath, she heard the quiet swish of shadows again. Holding her neck, she looked up and froze.

Her ghosts had been replaced with another.

A desire demon.

Her desire demon.

She stood tall and proud, turning slowly so that her slit gaze could survey their surroundings, looking for something. When she was satisfied that whatever she sought was not present, she turned back to Finley, tail swishing behind her.

This…was not an illusion.

“I would have come for you sooner, but I thought you were more capable than this.” Her demon brushed away a few wisps of smoke that clung to her, remnants of the illusions she’d killed. “You deal with demons regularly these days, do you not?” When there was no response, her demon looked down at Finley. There was a pause as their gazes met—an agonizing pause where Finley felt so tiny. She could hear panicked birds chirping.

“Enough of that!”

The birds cut off abruptly, and Finley’s attention snapped back into focus.

Her demon knelt before her, brow pinched together, making her look most wicked. “You should know that the Fade is formed by will. You are letting yours crumble.”

“I can’t face this many—”

“You can.” She caught Finley’s chin and looked her dead in the eyes. When Finley tried to jerk away, the demon’s nails pinched into her skin. “You are so good at denying me, why can’t you deny the Nightmare?”

“Wh—”

“It is a _fear_ demon you face, and you are feeding it and its ilk _exactly_ what it _needs_ to control you.”

Jerking away, Finley stumbled back further than she intended when her demon simply released her. “I’m not!”

“You are _terrified_!” Her tail snapped behind her, emphasizing her words, slit pupils pale against the darkness in her eyes.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Finley cried out, without thinking. The world was tumultuous, like a storm was rolling in, charging the air with electricity. Everything was sharper, the rocks the taste of the world around her. “They’re _demons_! And I’m in _their_ home! They want to _hurt_ me! I don’t—I don’t want to end up like _her_!” She didn’t notice the way her demon stopped, straightening up. Finley could barely breathe. It was all too much, the weight of everything, of being in the Fade, the world itself. It was smothering her. “I don’t want to lose pieces of myself as something devours me from the inside out! I won’t!”

“No, you won’t.”

The words were quiet, but somehow they cut through her panic.

In a blink, the world was as it had been before she’d started talking, the sharp edges back to normal, the air lighter.

She hadn’t realized just how much her panic had been growing inside of her since she’d woken up here until it was gone.

“No demon will ever wear you, little lamb,” her demon murmured, gaze downcast, “but for all your stubbornness, you will still fall to one if you don’t face your fears.”

The irony of the statement made Finley let out a bark of a laugh. This creature, this thing that had tormented her all through her life wanted her to face her fears?

She _was_ the source of Finley’s fears!

Wasn’t she?

“Your commander is not here.”

“I know that.”

“Neither are the ones who took you in, the ones who loved you.”

“I know.” Finley dared a glance around, a thought abruptly occurring to her. Why hadn’t they been attacked again? The demons never took this long to reappear.

Was this another illusion after all?

No.

She knew her demon’s presence. It was one of the only things she’d been familiar with her whole life.

This was the creature that had murdered her mother. The one who had taken over Aubrey and so many others.

And here she was, giving Finley advice?

She remembered what Solas had said in one of his attempts to talk to her about it. Something about original purposes being distorted and…she wasn’t sure why that would come to her now. Even Solas had admitted that her demon was one, that there was no redeeming her.

So why was she helping?

“I help because you are mine, as you always have been.”

“Stay out of my head,” Finley whispered.

“I can see the doubt plain on your face, little lamb.” The desire demon started to reach toward her, as though to stroke her cheek, and then let her hand fall back to her side. “Fight this demon as much as you fight me. _Don’t_ let it scare you.”

“I know they’re not real.” Finley finally murmured, shifting around, still looking for more enemies. She heard what sounded like a terror demon in the distance.

“Then how are they hurting you?”

“It’s…so long as there’s just one or two, I can fight back. I’m not equipped for fighting more than that.”

Her demon looked ready to argue, but instead simply sighed. “You should know that you are not the only one to have fallen into the Fade.”

The world around them erupted into hazy visions of the past. The Wardens, the good ones who surrendered, the ones who fell, the dragon…

The images around her froze with the fort crumbling, sending her and her allies plummeting into the abyss. They hung, suspended in the air, braced for the fall, reaching to grab purchase from the falling rocks around them.

Solas, Dorian, Blackwall, Varric, Garrett, and Alistair.

Her mind whirred.

If they _were_ in here too…

Solas would likely be fine. Dorian too, she supposed. And Varric…how would this affect him? Dwarves had no connection to the Fade, but if he was here, too…

The others were no mages, their understanding of the Fade would be mediocre at best.

They would be easy prey.

“I’ll do what I can to find them and send them to you.”

As soon as the words were spoken, her demon was gone.

The sound of boots crunching on gravel and stone broke the eerie silence that fell over her. Finley nocked an arrow, whirling around in time to see Solas and Warden Blackwall come charging around a winding path that she was quite certain hadn’t been there a moment before.

They stood there a moment, in a rather terse stand off, weapons held tightly, before Solas finally started toward her. As he did so, a glimmer of light faded away from his hand. “Inquisitor, I am glad to see you well.” He paused a second before adding, “We have fallen into the realm of the demon who has been watching you since before Haven fell. That you are not entranced means the ward I made you is still working.”

“Entranced?” Finley echoed. She considered the illusions she’d been running from before.

Solas nodded, hurrying over to her and then peering out at the surrounding area, looking for something, much as her demon had. “I saw one of the others from a distance. The Nightmare has entrapped them in horrible dreams. I was trying to find a way to Varric when I stumbled across Warden Blackwall and then realized all of us had come through.”

Warden Blackwall shifted his weight, expression grim. “We should move. Those little fear demons can’t be too far behind.”

Even as he spoke, Finley felt an odd relief sweep over her. She hadn’t been able to handle multiple demons at once, but she could do this with the others here. With Solas able to understand this place and Blackwall able to even the playing field…

“Where did you see Varric?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry for the long pause between chapters. I was pretty sick for a bit irl. Getting better now, though :3


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